Wedding Flowers
by PlayerPiano
Summary: Twenty-six years after the movie's action, one of Victor and Victoria's daughters is getting married.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Once upon a time, in a small village, two prominent families made an arrangement for their children to wed. The young man was the wealthy heir to a thriving business, the young woman the daughter of local aristocracy. The young woman and the young man, happily enough, fell in love at first sight. Unhappily, the young man could not remember his wedding vows. While practicing his vows in the dark forest he placed the wedding ring on a twig, which turned out to be the corpse of a beautiful young woman, murdered years ago on her way to elope. She rose from the grave, insisting that she was his rightful wife.

Whoops.

Skipping ahead a bit, now.

Eventually the Corpse Bride gave up the young man, realizing he had set her free of her earthly ties to marriage. The young man and his living young woman were happily reunited, and the Corpse Bride was at peace.

Now that's a fairy tale. Bittersweet, lovely, and a bit mysterious. Everything ends, happily ever after.

Skip ahead again to the "happily ever after" bit, already in progress.

Twenty-six years later, in the same small village, the young man and young woman from our fairy tale are not so young anymore. They are still married, and still in love, and they have four daughters. They are quite happy, living outside the village walls in a modest home, conducting themselves as solidly upper-middle-class. Not quite gentry, though not quite middling folk, either. It was a content little home for years, with so many children about. Life was easy, comfortable, and sweet, with four girls to be a comfort to their parents.

And then, those girls grew up, as girls are wont to do.

Now there are four young women in a village that hasn't seen this many young people at once since...well, ever. The oldest daughter has taken a job in the family business, with an eye to be the heir apparent. The second daughter has turned out to be the family beauty, vivacious and society-minded. The third is the quiet one, the unsure one, the dutiful and pleasant one who seems more than content to stay with her loving parents always. And the youngest, bright and energetic, has just finished her schooling and is clearly ready for an adventure. These are four wealthy heiresses with blood ties to local nobility and to local industry, all ready to begin their own lives. And in this village, that means making a good marriage. Four girls to be married, but a certain lack of young men...and a Father who is just fine with that.

This is not a fairy tale. This is the set-up to a light opera.

Victor Van Dort has never been a huge fan of light operas. And here he finds himself cast as the comic baritone, the Father. Or perhaps he is instead the lead in a Sholem Aleichem short story. That's probably a more accurate parallel.

Victor Van Dort isn't a big fan of those stories, either.


	2. A Family Breakfast

Wedding Flowers-Chapter 1

The hall clock chimed the hour. Eight o'clock on a perfectly average Friday morning in May. The Van Dort household was up and about in its large and comfortable house outside of the village walls, ready to begin the day. Victor and two of his daughters were already in the dining room and halfway through breakfast. Victoria, ever punctual and a creature of routine, would be down any moment-breakfast was at eight, not a moment earlier or later.

Victor was just finishing off his eggs, scribbling away at his latest article for the lepidoptery society's quarterly journal as he did so. He was rather pleased with his work this time. He was also pleased that he was sharing the breakfast table with the quieter pair of his quartet of children, as he had a deadline to meet.

Lydia, the oldest, sat to his left. She was twenty-three, capable, witty, and intelligent, and looked exactly like Victor. No mere family resemblance, this. She had his face, his nose, his eyes, his hair color. Perhaps her lips were a trifle more full and feminine-looking, but that was truly the only difference between them. Rather unfortunate for a young woman, Victor sometimes thought, particularly when taken with the fact that she was enormously tall-by the time she was eighteen and had finally stopped growing, she was a half-inch taller than he was. Still, she was confident and vibrant, which gave her a particular beauty all her own. That, at least, was Victor's opinion, but perhaps he was biased toward his oldest child. And doppelganger.

On his right sat Anne, the third daughter. She was also pale and dark-eyed with Victor's black hair, but she had her mother's large eyes and heart-shaped face. Over her toast she proof-read the first few pages of Victor's article. Shy, quiet, obliging and studious, she was always a willing helper on her father's projects, and he was happy to have her help. It reminded him of when all the children were little. They'd grown up far too fast, his two oldest especially. Anne still seemed content to be at home with him and Victoria, to have things just as they'd always been. Selfish or not, Victor found that very comforting.

"Aren't you coming into the office today, Father?" Lydia asked, finishing off her tea as she stood up from the table. Victor looked up from his notebook at his firstborn. She loved going to the office, eight-thirty to four every weekday. He just couldn't understand it.

"Perhaps I'll be in later," he replied. It wasn't as though he had all that much to do at Van Dort's Fish. Ostensibly he was "Managing Director" at the cannery, whatever that meant. It had been over twenty years and he still had no idea. He signed paperwork and wrote checks as directed. Much like his home life, come to think of it.

Lydia had been hired to be his and William's secretary, largely to humor her when she'd come of age and said she wanted to work. Straightaway, though, she'd made it clear that she was far too smart for merely answering correspondence and sorting mail. For the past year she'd been Victor's assistant managing director, and did a really excellent job at it. So excellent, in fact, that Victor had no problem delegating pretty much every job responsibility to her. Lydia had work to do that she was good at and enjoyed, Victor's father could rest easy with the knowledge that someone competent was handling most day to day business, and Victor could spend the bulk of his time doing his research and writing his articles. And on the few days he did go to work, he got to spend time with his daughter, which made all of that check signing and paperwork a lot more enjoyable.

It was a good system.

"Your mother and I are meeting your sisters at the station, remember?" he added. The train station was awfully far away. He probably wouldn't be able to make it into work at all today. Oh, well.

"Ah, yes," Lydia said, wiping her fingers on her napkin and then tossing it onto her empty plate. "The travellers are returning. There goes the peace and quiet, eh, Anne?" Anne just glanced up briefly, a small smile playing around her mouth. Lydia grinned back at her.

"It will be nice to have them home, though," Victor said as Lydia stepped out into the entry for her hat and coat. As much as he'd miss the relative peace, he missed having the whole family at home together more. While having just Lydia and Anne at home was a nice break, as they got along so well and were so quiet and sedentary, Victor missed the exuberance and bright energy of the other two girls. He was also rather nervous about what they got up to while away, so he'd be glad to have them back where he could keep an eye on them.

Mary, the youngest at fifteen, had just finished up her last term of school. She'd gone to the same boarding school as her sisters had, a day's travel away. While her reports and marks were good enough, and she'd never been in any _actual_ trouble, sometimes Mary's energy (or, as the etiquette mistress had put it in her end of term report, Mary's big mouth) got the better of her. There was also the incident earlier this term with the frog that had found its way into the desk of a classmate Mary had quarrelled with, but that sort of thing was an anomaly. Besides, the classmate was a dreadful and unpleasant snob, if Mary could be believed, so Victor figured she'd probably deserved it. It wasn't as though Mary was a troublemaker or terribly disobedient. She was just lively and needed some direction, but she wasn't all that much of a worry.

No, it was Catherine who worried him. She was twenty-two and acted every inch the young, pretty, and fabulously wealthy heiress. Her clothes were always the latest (none of her sisters seemed to care about that kind of thing), and she took real pride in cultivating her reputation in society. Victor's mother was thrilled with her, and the two of them got along famously. The flair for the dramatic she'd had as a little girl had evolved into a passion for parties, country weekends, and dancing. Parties, dresses, and a new hat every month Victor could handle. It was the following of men from all over the country (and a few from abroad), that he didn't like. Catherine relished the attention and the invitations, but, as far as Victor knew, she'd never crossed any lines. He knew he and Victoria had raised her better than that. But, given what had happened to the last girl he knew who'd been rich and beautiful and known for miles around, Victor felt it was best to be extra-cautious.

It had been a very long, worrying two months for Victor. Going away to school was one thing. Accompanying Victor's mother on an extended tour of the estates in the west of the country was something else entirely. The purpose of the trip was to be seen, to hobnob, et cetera, but he wasn't entirely naive. Given Catherine's standing and disposition, it was most likely she'd get married before any of her sisters did. But it could wait, as far as Victor was concerned. It could wait a very, very long time.

"Well, tell them hello for me, please," Lydia said, coming back into the room. She secured her hat with a lethal-looking hatpin, then turned to the small mirror that hung on the dining room wall next to the doorway. She straightened her lapels and smoothed back an errant bit of hair. While not as fashionable as Catherine, Victor had to admit Lydia cut quite the dash in her somber and well-tailored suits, with the straight and narrow skirts and shiny boots.

"I'll have to see them this evening, as I've got quite a bit to get through at work today," she added. Victor couldn't help smiling a bit at how important and proud she still sounded, even after a year. "And sorry to miss Mother, please tell her good morning. See you this evening!" With that, Lydia pulled on her gloves and disappeared into the hall. A moment later they heard the front door close.

"What time are they due to arrive? Oh, and these are fine," Anne said, handing Victor back the pages she'd read. Before he could reply, Victoria walked into the dining room.

"Good morning," she said, sitting down at the other end of the table, opposite Victor. He and Anne both returned her greeting, and she offered them smiles in turn. "I apologize for being late to breakfast. I wanted to make certain Catherine and Mary's rooms are ready for them." Victor smiled at her. He knew she was very much looking forward to having the children all back home again, just as he was. She'd been fluttering about the house for the past two days, making sure that their bed linens were fresh, that the lawn tennis net was up, and that their favorite dishes were on the dinner menus. Victor loved to watch her bustle about, filled with maternal purpose.

"We were just talking about going to meet their train," Victor said, pouring her a cup of tea and handing it to Anne, who passed it down.

"We'll have to leave just after breakfast," Victoria said, taking the cup and nodding her thanks. "The carriage will be ready, and we'll have a small lunch packed. I am so looking forward to seeing the girls," she said, serving herself some toast and tomatoes. "Dinner tonight will be lovely, with everyone together again."

"By the way, Lydia says good morning, and sorry she missed you," Victor said. The briefest flicker passed over Victoria's face as she picked up her fork.

"Off to work, then, I suppose?" she asked, her voice resigned. Victor looked at Anne, who met his look briefly before busying herself passing her mother a plate of sausages. The atmosphere in the room changed slightly but noticeably. Victoria did not approve of Lydia working for a living, Victor knew. She tried to keep quiet about it, and had never actively discouraged their daughter, but she also didn't go out of her way to encourage it. Victor supposed the whole concept was just foreign to her, and a bit hard for her to accept-he supposed he'd feel the same way if Lydia hadn't been working in the family business.

"And on her bicycle, too, I see," Victoria murmured, looking over Victor's shoulder out the window. He turned. Yes, there Lydia went, coasting down the drive and then out toward the bridge. She was the only woman in town who rode a bicycle-it had been her first purchase with her own money. He didn't comment, just turned back to the table and began tucking the loose pages of his article into his notebook.

"She likes her bicycle," Anne said, her tone quiet and soothing, as though Victoria had shouted. Turning to look out the window to watch as Lydia disappeared through the village gates, she added, "It was rather fun, the one time I tried it. Freeing."

Victoria gave a little sigh, then smiled at Anne. "Yes, she does like to ride her bicycle. I suppose it's good exercise." There was a brief pause.

"She's happy, you know, dear," Victor told her. They'd had this conversation many times in many different forms. It was part of the family drama, and he knew the script.

"I know, I know she is," Victoria said with another sigh. "It's still just a bit much for me to get used to. A young lady in..._business_." She spread her napkin on her lap. "Things have certainly changed since we were young, haven't they?" Victor nodded.

"Yes, they certainly have," he agreed. "Still though, I must say I support any societal changes that result in my having to pretend to be a businessman only twice a week." He saw Victoria and Anne share an amused glance.

"I'm very happy broad social trends worked out so well for the both of you," Victoria said, with just the merest sardonic note in her voice, looking at him under her eyelashes over the rim of her teacup. Victor grinned at her.

"Me too," he said.


	3. Van Dort's Fish

Wedding Flowers-Chapter 2

Lydia loved the feel of the breeze on her face when she rode her bicycle. Why didn't more people ride them? She also rather enjoyed the scandalized look on the older villagers' faces when she rolled past. It was just a bicycle, not a statement. The only kind of statement her bicycle made was one about how she had to get to work and wanted to do so on her own time and under her own power.

Shrewdly, Lydia guessed that was precisely the problem.

The looks had rather fallen off, now that she'd been bicycling so long. The only ones who really cared anymore were Mother and Grandmother Everglot-and Mother didn't really care _that _much. At least Lydia hoped she didn't. She loved and respected her mother very much, and truly didn't want to upset her, but the fact remained that Mother could be very old-fashioned somtimes. Father, too, for that matter. To everyone else she was just the eccentric heiress, who because of wealth and connections could pretty much do as she pleased.

Lydia liked being able to do as she pleased, and couldn't care less what sort of looks she got from strangers.

The smell of fish hit her as she pedalled into the square. It wasn't very crowded this time of day, just the tradespeople opening up and a few workers like herself making their way to their places of business. _Business_. A fantastic word. Which reminded her that she needed to meet with her grandfather today, before the board of trustees met. For the past few weeks she'd been formulating an idea. As of last night she finally had a decent proposal made up. Now all she had to do was pitch it.

She rode past the monument, getting just the slightest bit of a thrill when one of the village's top-hatted lawyers nodded a greeting to her. Lydia nodded back, her expression pleasant but professional. The watchmaker and the head of the bank offered similar greetings when she passed them. No fuss, no demurring, just nods and the occasional "'Morning." She might not care what people thought of her, but she wanted to be taken seriously and treated as important. Those nods really meant something to her. She wasn't just heir to the Van Dort fortune, or a town socialite, or just any lady. She was a woman of business and was treated as such.

By some, anyway.

The smell of fish was pervasive now as she slowed up just outside Van Dort's Fish. The business certainly had expanded since she'd been small. She remembered when it was just a shopfront (selling nothing but Van Dort Fish Products, naturally), with office space above, the fish delivery station out front, and one little piece of equipment in a smaller outbuilding out back. Now the shop had taken over the building next door as well, and the outbuilding was easily thrice the size it had been. Many people in town hadn't liked this progress (Grandmother and Grandfather Everglot, for instance), and continued to complain about "eyesore-this" and "noisy-that," but Lydia noticed that nobody seemed to mind sharing in the benefits of commerce, industry, and retail. Anyway, Lydia personally sort of liked that industrial look-she'd never been much of an outdoorsy person.

She dismounted and propped her bicycle against the far side of the shop, near the alleyway. Her granddad's face grinned cheekily down at her from the huge sign on the side of the building. Smoothing her skirt and straightening her hat, as that enjoyable breeze had mussed her just slightly, she made her way into the shop.

"Morning, Mr. Auerbach," Lydia said, pulling the door shut behind her. Mr. Auerbach, tall and gaunt with a grey beard and rather dirty apron, was behind the counter weighing out whitefish. He nodded at her, eyes on his work.

"Miss Van Dort," he said. Finished with the whitefish, he went about wiping down the counter. Selling choice pieces of fresh fish right alongside all of the canned specialty products had been Lydia's idea. It was a sideline, to be sure, but it was proving a lucrative one. She cast an eye over the stock on the shelves as she made her way to the staircase at the back of the shop.

_Order more salmon, send down more shrimp_, she added to the ongoing list in her head. Turning back to Mr. Auerbach, she said, "I need your ledgers for the week by this afternoon, if you please. I need to make up my report, and Mr. Weary needs to get the accounting done." Mr. Auerbach merely nodded.

On her way up the staircase Lydia paused, touching her hand to the pocket of her suit jacket. Paper crinkled inside. Mentioning Mr. Weary had reminded her-she had something to deliver. In thinking over her plans for the day, as well as her proposal, she'd quite forgotten.

Lydia liked Ned Weary. Well, his real name was Ogdred, but he asked everyone to call him Ned (since "Ogdred's such a ridiculous name," he'd explained. Lydia couldn't argue with him there). Ned was the accounting manager at the cannery, maybe six or seven years older than she was. He'd grown up around the village, leaving briefly to attend school and travel a bit. Always professional and friendly, he was a nice man to have around. Lydia enjoyed working with him-he'd even been round to the house a few times for tea over the past few months.

Which, of course, was how he'd met Anne.

The office floor was quiet when she walked in. She was usually the first to arrive. A wall of pigeonholes for the employees ran along one wall, flanked by wooden filing cabinets. Two telephones hung on the wall opposite. Four desks were set up for the receptionists and secretaries in the middle of the room. Past those were three office doors with frosted glass windows.

Lydia's office door was the one in the middle. Well, it was hers and Father's, but as she spent the most time in it she considered it her own. She even had her own telephone line. Well, technically that too was her father's, but, again, she got the most use out of it. In gold plate letters on the glass were the words "Managing Director." Below that, in slightly smaller letters, was "Victor Van Dort." And then below that, in fresher paint, was an ampersand followed by "Lydia Van Dort."

Even after a year she still liked seeing her name on an office door, even though it was listed second.

Lydia stopped by the pigeonholes on her way to her office. From her jacket pocket she took the neatly folded note that Anne had slipped her before breakfast. Pausing, and feeling a little silly, she took a sniff of the envelope. It _was_ perfume! She'd thought she'd been getting a whiff of lilacs through the fish odor. _Anne's getting as bad as Catherine, I swear,_ Lydia thought to herself. Hopefully the fish smell from the shop below and the assembly line in back would cover the floral scent. Honestly, this was a place of business, there had to be a line somewhere.

Making a mental note to tell Anne to take it easy with the romantic trappings, Lydia slipped the love note into the box marked "Ogdred Weary," and continued on her way.


	4. The Blue Shirtwaist

Wedding Flowers-Chapter 3

"You're sure you don't want to come with us?" Mother asked as she pulled on her gloves. Anne stood next to the staircase, watching her parents prepare to leave for the long drive to the train station. Mr. Reed, their all-purpose male servant, had the team of horses and the handsomer of the family's two carriages ready to take them to meet the train.

Anne nodded her reply. She was sure. It was rare that she ever had nearly an entire day all to herself, and she planned to make good use of it. She watched as Mother put on her small cream-colored hat, arranging the little lace veil over her face. It matched her close-cut and narrow-skirted dress, as well as her shoes. Mother was always so coordinated. Anne wished she could achieve Mother's elegant simplicity and beauty. Unfortunately, she felt she was rather stuck on the "simplicity" part of the equation. The elegance and beauty remained elusive.

"Really?" Father asked, helping Mother into her wrap. As he shrugged into his coat he added, "I'm sure your sisters would like to see you."

"Oh, well...I wanted to decorate the dining room for tonight, to make it special," Anne said. Her parents smiled fondly at her. A little voice in her head said, _Liar liar liar!_ in a lilting playground tone. For some reason it sounded like her sister Catherine. Anne shook her head a little. She wasn't a liar. Not completely. She just wasn't mentioning all of her plans.

"That's very nice of you," Mother said, pulling on her gloves. "I'm sure it will be beautiful. Do help yourself to whatever you like in the garden, if you need flowers. Alice knows where the vases are." Anne nodded again. She was trying not to fidget too much, to keep her cool, while she kept casting glances at the clock. _Come on, do leave already! _that Catherine-esque voice in her head kept saying.

"Yes, I'll do that, thank you, Mother!" she chirped, hoping she didn't sound anxious. She made a show of looking at the clock. "My goodness, you'll both want to be on your way, I'm sure! It wouldn't do to be late, after all."

Perhaps she chirped a bit too much, for Father gave her a funny look. Anne looked at the floor. She should've just kept quiet. Her sisters were all able to lie breezily, especially with Father. Mother, as a rule, was harder to put one over on, and usually none of them even bothered trying. Anne didn't share the ability. She was horrible at fibbing anyway, but she found it especially hard to conceal things from Father. In the first place she never needed to, and in the second, he knew her too well to be fooled on the rare occasion she did try. Usually she loved the closeness she shared with Father. They understood one another, shared many interests. Today, she was rather ashamed to admit to herself, she found their affinity almost annoying.

"Hm," Father said, still looking at her closely. He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression unchanging and inscrutable. Anne closed her eyes for a brief moment. _He knows! He figured it out! Why always me?_ she thought, bracing herself, mentally drafting excuses and apologies, trying not to panic.

Much to her relief, Father broke into a grin. "She clearly wants us gone," he said to Mother, who smiled broadly. Turning to Anne, he continued, "I suppose you're looking forward to having the house to yourself. A little quiet time. I don't blame you. Enjoy it while you can!" He came over and gave her a fond little pat on the shoulder. Anne grinned at him. _Phew!_ If only he knew.

Suddenly an automobile horn blared. Anne, already tense, nearly jumped out of her skin. Father, who had also jumped, gave her another pat, this one reassuring, before walking over to peek out the glass pane of the front door. Mother joined him, and Anne, after a moment, tagged along behind.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Father groaned, putting a hand over his eyes and shaking his head. Mother put a hand to her mouth, staying quiet. Anne, for her part, had to bite her lower lip to keep from smiling.

There, bold as brass in the drive, with a dark figure in the driver's seat, sat the infamous Two Thousand Dollar Death Trap.

Anne didn't have a head for automobile names, so she really wasn't sure what kind it was, but it hardly mattered. If one said "car" or "auto" around this village, one could only mean William Van Dort's touring car, which he'd bought two years ago as a status symbol. He was the only man with an automobile for miles. It didn't see all that much use, since the streets within the village walls were hardly equipped for motorcars, but Granddad and Grandmamma were only too happy to go about in it when they had business outside of the village.

Oddly enough, it was Grandmother Everglot who'd given the auto its nickname. She'd intended the remark as an insult the very second she'd laid eyes on the car. But, as with so many insults in history, it had been co-opted and affectionately used as something akin to a pet name. Now everyone in town knew the Van Dorts' touring car as the Two Thousand Dollar Death Trap.

"I'm not getting in that thing," Father said, staring at the automobile. His tone was resolute. Anne knew Father wasn't all that impressed with cars. Particularly not Granddad's, what with the retractable advertisements. Mother gave him a look, and gently touched his arm.

"I'm sure your father sent it along as a courtesy," Mother told him. "We can always say 'No, thank you,' after all." Father looked over Mother's shoulder at Anne, who could only shrug.

Eventually Mr. Reed, after a prolonged conversation with the driver of the Death Trap, came up to the front door. Stepping into the entry, he explained that Mrs. Van Dort had been _quite _insistent that the automobile pick up herself and her granddaughter from the train station. That way, they both could be seen heading back into the village in style. It would also be an opportunity for the younger Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort to be seen motoring. Anne couldn't help noticing how uncomfortable nice old Mr. Reed looked as he relayed this information, turning his hat over and over in his hands and stealing little looks over at the carriage and team he'd taken so long to prepare.

"Who does she suppose is going to see them? Or us?" Father asked. Mother nudged him gently with her elbow. "What?" he asked.

"We can compromise," Mother said in that calm way of hers. Turning to Mr. Reed, she said, "Tell the car to go on ahead, and we'll follow in the carriage. That way Mrs. Van Dort can motor all she likes, and whoever else cares to may ride in the carriage." Father nodded, and Mr. Reed went back out to relay the message.

"Come, we'd best be on our way," Mother said, taking Father's arm. "We don't want to be late." They both turned to look at Anne, who'd resumed her post at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the bannister.

"We'll see you tonight, dear," Father said. "Enjoy your day." With that, the two of them headed outside, Father offering a little wave back at her as he went.

As soon as the door shut Anne rushed to the parlor window and watched her parents get into the carriage. The Death Trap peeled away in front of them, spinning up gravel and making the horses snicker and sidestep before heading on their way. Down the drive the carriage went. Anne waved, even though she knew no one would see her.

They were gone. She was alone. She looked at the hall clock. Nearly ten. She only had a few minutes to get ready. Anne fairly scampered up the stairs to her bedroom, taking a few stairs two at a time in her haste.

As she hurried, her thoughts turned inevitably to Ned. Oh, Ned. She was rather sure he'd meet her for a walk as offered in her note for this morning (Lydia was so kind to carry letters back and forth for them). She was so looking forward to seeing him. Letters were lovely, and there was something romantic and old-fashioned about a semi-secret correspondence, but nothing compared to being in his company.

She'd only met him a month ago, when he'd come to dinner at Lydia's invitation. They'd sat across the table from each other, gazes meeting over a dish of peas. As far as Anne was concerned, that had been that. It didn't really matter that he was quite a bit older than she was, thirty-two to her freshly-turned twenty. His relatively youthful air was a nice match for her rather beyond-her-years maturity. He was kind and cheerful, but also had a certain solemnity about him that she rather liked. She also liked the way he parted his fair hair straight down the middle, in a perfect line. And his little spectacles.

She shook herself. It wouldn't do to get distracted. She'd see him soon enough, and she was running out of time to prepare.

Once in her bedroom she went to her wardrobe. For quite a while she merely stood, staring at her clothes. What to choose? She wanted to look as nice as possible. Fashionable. Pretty, even. Like Mother and Catherine. She started sifting through her clothes. Tweed skirts. Shirtwaists. More tweed skirts. One hand-me-down gown from Mother that was about thirty years out of date as well as much too fancy to go walking in. She slumped, cursing her sensible wardrobe.

Finally, she settled on one of her nicer shirtwaists, the flattering blue one with the lace on the collar and the pearl buttons. Nothing too fancy. Now hair...oh, just a simple twist would do. She couldn't call in Alice, the maid, to help-Alice would let something slip, she was sure. Anne knew there wasn't anything illicit about what she was doing-it was perfectly respectable, all above-board.

She just wanted Ned and their letters and their walks to be all her own for a little while.

Anne smiled at herself in the mirror. After considering, she pulled just a few tendrils of hair loose around her face. Ooh yes, flattering. She was ready.


	5. Meeting the Train

Wedding Flowers-Chapter 4

Victor took his watch out of his pocket and glanced at it. Any time now. The train was on schedule, according to the station master, and was due to arrive within twenty minutes. Tucking his watch away again, he scanned the station platform. He and Victoria were sitting on a long, plain bench, enjoying the warmth and quiet of the afternoon. For a train station, it was eerily quiet and subdued, no hustle at all. Bustling was also at a minimum.

This place really was in the middle of nowhere, even more so than the village. Still, it was more convenient than driving all the way to the city to meet a train there, and a city stop would have meant missing the connection with Mary's train from school. Although, Nell and Catherine would both probably have preferred to swan around town a while before coming home. Certainly they'd have preferred a grand arrival at a posh station to simply stepping onto a platform at a mere stop. Victor preferred giving Catherine as little opportunity to swan around as humanly possible, so this arrangement worked perfectly well for him. Besides, she'd probably been doing _quite_ enough swanning over the past two months, anyway. He shifted on his seat a little. Oh, he hoped she was still in one piece. One decently dressed and un-engaged piece.

In any case the drive out had been pleasant and uneventful. He couldn't remember the last time he and Victoria had taken a ride together. Or had lunch alone together, for that matter. It had been very pleasant today indeed, a country ride with his pretty wife, and an extremely good packed lunch besides. Secretly he was rather glad Anne had decided to stay home. She was such a thoughtful girl. He had the feeling she probably had sensed her parents might enjoy some time alone together, and that courtesy had been part of her reason for remaining behind.

Victor and Victoria were the only ones waiting. Mr. Reed had stayed with the carriage, getting ready to heft and haul luggage. Nell's driver, decked out in full chauffeur garb, stood at attention at the other end of the platform, holding a big sign that read, "Mrs. William Van Dort." Victor had noticed the sign also had the Van Dort's Fish logo in one corner. Goodness, what must people think? Even he, who cared very little about society opinion, thought _that _was pretty gauche and nouveau, and he was a blood relation and one of the primary shareholders.

"I don't think he needs the sign, do you?" Victoria asked, seeing where he was looking. "I'm fairly sure your mother will be able to see him through this incredible scrum." They both chuckled. The driver might have heard them, as he cleared his throat importantly and stood up even straighter, his manner quite like that of a palace guard. Victor and Victoria shared a look, and shook their heads nearly in unison.

"Should be any moment," Victor told Victoria, who had turned to watch down the track for the train. She lifted the net veil from her face and squinted. He wondered if she'd thought to bring her lorgnette. Poor thing was getting more short-sighted with each passing year. At least it wasn't happening at quite the same rate that his hairline was receding. If it were, she'd be blind before she turned fifty.

"Yes, listen, you can hear it," she said. Tilting his head, he did indeed hear the rumble of the train heading their way. It didn't take long for the train itself to chug into view, coming round the bend onto the straight track toward them. The two of them stood, watching as the train squealed, puffed, and rattled its way to a stop next to the platform. It was small, just a locomotive and only two passenger cars. The engine was also giving off an alarming amount of smoke.

"Such an awful lot of soot," Victor said, squinting and waving the air in front of his face. "Must be an older model." Victoria nodded, pulling out her handkerchief and putting it over her nose and mouth.

"I wouldn't have worn this if I'd known!" she said over the noise, brushing fruitlessly at her nice off-white dress. It was already looking a little dingy. "If only I'd thought to wear my duster...oh my, I imagine your mother is beside herself, having to ride in that!"

"Yes, heaven forbid Mother's transportation be out of date!" he said, also having to raise his voice to be heard.

To say her name was to summon her, it seemed. Aided by a porter and a set of collapsible stairs, Nell Van Dort stepped regally onto the platform.

Nell had just turned seventy, but she carried herself like a much younger woman. Her hair only had a few streaks of gray, and she wasn't too terribly wrinkled. Victor was pretty sure she paid for _lots _of treatments in Switzerland. Her outfit, of course, was up-to-the-minute fashionable, though it probably would've suited someone Lydia's age much better. It was a grey tailored suit with two rows of buttons on the long jacket, and a skirt that only reached the ankle, better to show off shiny pumps. The look was completed with a wide-brimmed matching hat and a fabric belt around what little remained of her waist. Yes, much too young an outfit. Especially with the ankle-showing.

Behind her came Mary, slender and fairly tall (nowhere near Lydia but still a rather respectable height), with large eyes, a narrow face, and a slightly pointed chin. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a braid, although several strands were escaping their confines. The unruly hair and the sailor-suit collar on her simple white dress made her look younger than she was. Victor saw her face brighten with a broad smile as she made eye contact with him over Nell's head. She waved as she hopped down the last step onto the platform. He waved back, also smiling. It had only been a couple of months, but she'd grown.

And then, Catherine stepped down onto the platform, taking her time and smiling winningly at the porter has he handed her down. She was vibrant in her excellently tailored dusky pink and white striped travelling suit that nipped in at the waist, matching small hat, and gloves. She too was showing quite a bit of ankle under the hem of her rather full skirt-in her case, the problem was that the look suited her _too _well. At least that was Victor's opinion. He watched, fatherly disapproval rearing up, as the porter held onto her hand for a second longer than necessary after she was safely off the train.

His second daughter, he had to admit, had turned out to be a very, very pretty girl. She alone of the girls hadn't grown very tall, finishing up an inch or so shorter than Victoria and Anne, who were of a height. As a child her plumpness and short stature had made her rather stout, but that girlhood plumpness had matured into a sturdy, buxom figure that women of Victor's generation had had to corset themselves into. Even her round face worked for her somehow, especially with the way she wore her blonde hair in waves around her ears.

But the big problem, as Victor saw it, was that Catherine knew how she looked, and she used it. Victor often looked at her and wondered precisely how he and Victoria had ended up with someone like her. Oh, he loved her, dearly, and admired her vivacity and charm and enthusiasm...but it just seemed unlikely that the two of them shared genes. The thought had occurred to him once how odd it was that Lydia was the one whose middle name they had made "Emily," as a tribute. Catherine was much more like Emily, that was certain. She danced, she sang, she was unbridled and passionate, and, it had to be said, a bit naive. Victor found these attributes to be much, _much _less appealing when they manifested in his daughter. Catherine and Emily would have been bosom friends. Lydia would most likely have spoken to Emily once and then given up. She would have found her tiresome at best and irritating at worst. Catherine, at least, would have appreciated Emily's vivacity-Lydia would have rolled her eyes and snippily dismissed it.

Victor shook his head to clear it. Odd, how he nearly always lumped Emily in with his children on the occasions when he thought of her of late.

Suddenly he felt Victoria take his arm and give him a nudge forward. He looked down at her. She'd put her handkerchief away and was smiling up at him.

"Come, dear," she said, giving his arm another gentle tug, "Let's go meet them. Don't the girls look lovely?" Victoria gazed at the children, who weren't quite children anymore. Victor nodded. He felt that he didn't need to answer. He always thought the women of his household looked lovely.

"Well," she amended as they started across the platform, "Catherine's skirt is a touch too short, of course, and Mary doesn't seem able to keep her hair bound up, but I don't mind what they look like. I'm so happy to see them!"

Victor smiled and patted her hand. They stopped to let the porter with the luggage trolley go by. By the time he had passed the train was getting ready to leave again. Clearly Nell and the girls were the only ones getting off at this stop. Already the engine was starting up again, the soot beginning to fly anew. Before the smoke got too thick he saw Catherine and Mary gagging and putting their hankies over their faces.

_Best to let that clear before getting any closer_, Victor thought as he coughed into his fist, and Victoria pulled out her handkerchief again.


	6. A Ride in the Death Trap

Wedding Flowers-Chapter Five

"Mary Lavinia, keep your hands inside this car, young lady!" Victoria said, having to raise her voice to be heard above the noise of the engine and the rush of the wind.

Mary, seated in the front bench seat with Catherine and the driver, had been sticking her arm outside the car, testing the wind resistance with her fingers. Secretly Victoria felt slightly like a hypocrite for scolding-it might be nice, exhilarating, even, to feel such a mighty rush of wind against one's fingertips. That was probably why she'd let her daughter get away with it for a minute or so before reprimanding her. Still, were another vehicle to come by, or even an inconvenient tree branch, Mary would find herself without a left arm. She watched as Mary, after a glance at her over her shoulder, reluctantly pulled back her hand and put it in her lap.

Satisfied, Victoria sat back, shifting a bit to get more comfortable. Broad as the backseat was, it was still a bit of a squeeze for three, particularly with Nell in the middle. Victor was practically sitting sideways, she noticed. The car jolted as the driver sped up going round a bend, and Victoria felt her hat begin to fly off. Quickly she clapped a hand over the top of it just before it came off completely. She'd probably have to keep a hand to her head the entire trip home, the way her mother-in-law's driver drove. She allowed herself a little sigh, knowing no one would hear her over the wind.

Like Victor, she'd have much preferred a nice, leisurely ride home in the carriage with the children. Looking over her mother-in-laws head at her husband, she saw that he was still staring straight ahead, his expression stony, as he'd been the entire ride so far. He'd not said a word since trying to tell his mother that he would not be setting foot in the Death Trap, thank you very much. Even when Victoria had tried to back him up, nobody had listened. Yet as she'd tried to tell him, it was easier, and far more peaceful, to simply do as Nell asked. It was just a ride in a car, and they'd be home faster. Mr. Reed would catch up with the luggage eventually. Besides, the girls had been quite enthusiastic about taking the auto. Judging by his face, which still bore the clear danger signals of mouth and eyebrows forming straight lines, he was not comforted or encouraged by the speed of the journey. Victoria sighed again. He'd get over it soon enough.

At least one could converse in a carriage. These autos were much too noisy, particularly when riding with the cover down. Victoria had attempted to suggest that they put it up, but she'd quickly rescinded her suggestion when she'd seen the affronted look on Nell's face. Victoria truly hated to seem a snob, because she certainly wasn't one, but still...to be so adamant about being seen in an automobile. It just shouted, _Look at me! _ _I am trying too hard_! She'd tried on more than one occasion over the years to delicately steer her mother-in-law away from such nouveau actions, to teach her how the old money went about things, but so far it seemed she had been unsuccessful. Sometimes she had to wonder why she even bothered.

"Shame we didn't get a match arranged for Catherine!" Nell said to Victoria for the third time since they'd pulled away from the station. She'd tried to pretend she hadn't caught what Nell had said the first two times. She probably wouldn't be permitted to get away with it again.

Victoria did not want to talk about it, particularly because she thought it was the diametric opposite of a shame that Catherine hadn't come home engaged. So did Victor-in fact, Victoria had noticed, the first thing he'd done after greeting Catherine had been to scan her left hand for a ring. Finding none, the relief had been clear on his face.

Besides, Victoria was privy to a lot more information than Victor or Nell, and she happened to know that her daughter wasn't seriously interested in any of the young men whose estates she'd visited. Sometimes Victoria thought Victor would trust Catherine quite a bit more if he knew the sorts of things that she knew-but matters of love and courting and marriage were hardly subjects a girl wanted to talk about with her father. Actually, she was rather surprised that Catherine wanted to share them with _her_, mother or not. It was rather nice to be someone's confidante, she had to admit, especially to bubbly Catherine. Nice as it was to pretend to be her daughter's schoolmate and best friend when they had their chats, the fact that she was Mother made it complicated. Especially with Victor worrying so whenever Catherine so much as received a postcard from a young man. It was a difficult tightrope to walk sometimes, between the two of them and the roles she had to fill.

In twenty-six years Victoria had only kept a handful of secrets from Victor. They all had to do with Catherine.

Suddenly Nell jabbed Victoria in the side with her fan to get her attention, quite breaking her out of her reflections. As she jumped in surprise and pain, Nell went on quite calmly, "They're all getting much too old! We'll have to find husbands for them soon, or you're never going to get them off of your hands!"

"I don't want to 'get them off my hands,'" Victoria said, rubbing the spot where she'd been poked. She wasn't in the mood to have this discussion. It was well-trodden territory, and she was getting rather tired of it.

Or perhaps "tired" was too polite a phrase. Victoria _hated_ this topic, she really did. Ever since her older girls had reached marriageable age, both sides of the family had been on her to get them all out on the market and find them good husbands. The very idea made her stomach turn. Her girls were happy, they were rich, they were well cared for-there was no need for any of them to get married unless they fell in love and felt they wanted to. They'd never be caught in a trap of duty the way she'd been. Well, unless every ocean in the world dried up or fish went extinct, but that seemed unlikely. In her heart of hearts Victoria actually wouldn't mind at all if none of them married, and rather lived on as they had been, all together. That was probably very unrealistic. In any event, she would do anything to spare her daughters what she'd gone through, and she'd made that clear to her parents and to her in-laws.

Not that any of them listened.

"You'll have to do _something_ to help them along, I've told you that before," Nell told her, speaking to her as though Victoria were Mary's age. Victoria hated that, too. But all she did was close her eyes for a moment and take a deep breath through her nose.

Opening her eyes she glanced again at Victor. Fruitlessly, she knew already-he hated this topic as much as she did even when he wasn't already in a mood. He was keeping his gaze forward, but she could tell he was listening. If talks really broke down he'd probably step in, but barring that, Victoria was on her own when it came to arguing with Nell about the girls. Mary and Catherine were happily chatting with one another in the front seat, but the wind was such that Victoria couldn't hear what they were saying. She hoped that meant they couldn't hear their grandmother.

"Catherine's the best chance you've got," her mother-in-law continued. "She's making wonderful progress, impressing all the best types! You should have seen her at Count Van Lynden's country estate! I wouldn't be surprised if you were able to arrange something there, if you'd just take the time to write a few letters, put out a few invitations, maybe." This last she said pointedly, eyeing Victoria up and down. Oh, so it was _this _tactic today: My Granddaughters Aren't Married Because My Daughter-in-Law is Lazy.

"Mary!" Victor suddenly cried. He reached over the back of the front seat to Mary, who was sitting in front of him, and grabbed her shoulder. Her arm seemed to have found its way out of the car again. "You heard your mother. Keep doing that, and you'll get your arm torn off."

"And then we'll have an even more difficult time finding her a husband, being a cripple," Nell said. Victor rolled his eyes as he sat back again. Even though she couldn't hear it, Victoria was rather sure she heard him heave a put-upon sort of sigh. Nell noticed, too, for she gave him a jab with her fan.

"This is _serious_," she said, looking from Victor to Victoria and back again. "It's not as though they're _all _lost causes. Lydia you'll probably never see the back of, what with the way she carries on-"

"Excuse me? 'Carries on'?" Victor interjected, but his mother waved him off.

"But it's not as though you've not got spares, after all," she went on, gesturing to Mary and Catherine with her fan. "Once that youngest one gets a bit older, you'll be having to beat the suitors off your front porch with a stick, mark my words."

At that, Catherine let out a merry laugh. She turned in her seat to look at them.

"Grandmamma, really! Father'd never let them get as far as the front porch!" she said with another laugh and a fond look at her father. In spite of the circumstances Victoria couldn't help smiling at that one. It was true. She was rather sure Victor would put up a stockade fence around their house with barbed wire across the top if he could. Victor managed a small, rather ironic smile, before he said,

"Turn around dear, it's not polite to eavesdrop." Catherine obliged, with another smile. She leaned over and murmured something to Mary, who also laughed. Victoria shook her head. She was rather sure she'd never been quite that young. Maybe it would have been different, had she had sisters. Or even friends. All of her daughters seemed much too young to get married. Had she really been younger than Anne when she'd married? It seemed impossible.

Victoria figured Catherine's well-timed tension-breaking comment would mean the end of Nell's complaining. At least for now. So it was with frustration and annoyance that she glanced at her mother-in-law after feeling yet another tap of the fan on her arm.

"Anyway, as I said, Catherine's made some wonderful impressions already," Nell said. She patted her hair and added, "Just imagine how they'll swarm when she's finally a baroness! They'll probably even be after Lydia, once all the girls come into their titles. Should be rather soon, shouldn't it?" At that moment the driver took another sharp turn, and Victoria had to make another frantic grab for her hat.

"What?" Victoria asked, unable to keep a dumbfounded note out of her voice. Still trying to hold her hat on, she turned and gave her mother in law a long look. _Is she being serious? _she wondered. Looking again at Victor, she found that he was also regarding his mother with confusion. Their eyes met, the question clear: _Who should handle this one?_

"What what?" Mrs. Van Dort asked in return, rather more snippily than called for. Victoria just closed her eyes for a moment.

This wasn't entirely surprising. For years she'd thought something strange had gone on when her parents had arranged her marriage to Victor. Everybody knew that titles weren't passed on through women, and that men weren't elevated to the status of their wives when they married. At least, she'd _assumed _everybody knew that. Victor certainly hadn't. Not that being the daughter of a minor baron was anything special. It would seem that Victoria's parents had somehow forgotten to mention how the whole thing worked when they'd brokered the deal.

"I'm afraid that's not how it works," Victoria finally said carefully. Honestly, though. Every Christmas she gave her mother-in-law an up-to-date peerage guide. She'd spent hours upon hours helping with seating arrangements. She'd fielded panicked telegrams, notes, and phone calls about precedence order for twenty-six full years, always with patience and kindness-and, of course, expertise. And still, _still_, Mrs. Van Dort thought her granddaughters were going to be baronesses?

"If they're going to be titled, they'll have to marry into it," Victoria said. Then her eyes widened as she realized the implication of her words. She'd not been thinking. Looking at Nell again, she could practically see her wheels of social machinations beginning to turn. Clearly her mother-in-law was drafting a list of every nobleman within a two-hundred mile radius, with plans to have them all round to meet Catherine. _Just like a market_, Victoria thought, almost surprised at how disgusted she was by it.

"Please do not get any ideas," Victoria said in the sternest voice she could manage while remaining respectful. "My children will marry where they choose, if they choose-I will not be trading any of them for a title, and I will not allow you to try to do so." And she meant it. Every word. She knew what it was like to be sold. It wasn't going to happen to any of her daughters. Never. She'd decided that from the very day Lydia had been born. At least Victoria could be content with the knowledge that this time around, _she _was Mother, with full veto power.

"Oh, don't get on your soapbox," Nell told her, waving a hand dismissively. Victoria bristled, but managed to hold her tongue. "I'll do what I can to help your girls, even if you won't."

That tore it. Victoria, fully angry and fully prepared to argue, got as far as pointing a finger and opening her mouth before her mother-in-law turned away and barked,

"Mary, stick your arm out of the car again, and _I'll _tear it off!"


	7. Lilacs and Canterbury Bells

Wedding Flowers—Chapter 6, Part 1

Lydia sat in the window seat in the parlor, the newspaper forgotten on her lap. She'd read the same paragraph three times before giving up. She was still much too worked up to concentrate. She'd even come home early from the cannery, simply unable to sit there and work and pretend everything was fine. Particularly unable to sit and work with Mr. Van Schelven and pretend that everything was fine.

First time she'd ever taken advantage of that particular perk. She didn't plan to make a habit out of it. At least she'd been able to use the excuse that her sisters were arriving home and that she wanted to be sure to be there in time to greet them. Grandad had most likely seen through that, but he'd at least had the good sense to pretend he believed her. Let her salvage a little dignity after suffering base betrayal.

When she'd explained all this to Anne over afternoon tea, her sister'd thought she was overreacting. But she wasn't. In retrospect she might've been talking more loudly than necessary, and perhaps using language that skated along the edge of ladylike, but she was not overreacting. Besides, what did Anne know? She'd been off in her own little dreamland all afternoon. Had hardly listened to Lydia at all, just nodded now and then and tried to look serious and attentive, before her eyes would unfocus and her expression grow moony again.

Fine. Clearly Anne had other things to think about. Lydia looked out the window and watched her as she made her quiet way through Mother's flower garden at the side of the house, gathering blooms to make a centerpiece for tonight's dinner table. She felt just a twinge of guilt. Even though she knew the answer already, she could've asked Anne how her little outing with Ned had been. Her sister was plainly thinking of nothing else.

At least one of them had had a nice day.

Frowning a little, she leaned her chin in her hand and watched her sister bend to smell the early roses. The garden was always such a wild nest of flowers this time of year. There was some sort of peculiar order, she was sure, but she hadn't a clue what it was. Mother much preferred colorful sprays in interesting places to orderly rows. Jasmine roped its way over trellises, phlox and myrtle crept along borders and edges, honeysuckle seemed everywhere you looked. Yet it was very pretty. Chaotic, to Lydia's mind, but still pretty.

_Bonds of love_, she thought idly as Anne cut a sprig of honeysuckle. On a whim she'd read one of those old floriography books once, and the definitions had stuck in her head. Lydia was rather indifferent to flowers, but she did like lists and definitions.

_Well that's fitting, _Lydia thought to herself as her younger sister snipped a bloom from one of the enormous lilac bushes that flanked the head of the garden path, and held it to her nose. Anne just couldn't seem to stop grinning like an idiot these days, especially on days when she went for walks with Ned. Lydia figured he must feel the same way about her, as he'd been completely useless after he'd returned from their walk. Even _he _hadn't been interested in her plight-usually Ned could be counted on to chummily share outrage and then offer solutions. Today, though, he'd just kept to his desk and fiddled around with the books, wearing the same sort of goony expression Anne had been sporting.

In her angriest moment, Lydia had very nearly threatened to tell Father about the two of them. See how they liked that. Luckily the feeling had passed quickly. And of course she'd never do such a thing-it was merely hard not to get nasty after being shunted off and ignored.

Ignored and..._discriminated _against. Yes, that was the word. Out in the garden, Anne was collecting some Canterbury Bells. Mother loved those, and grew them all over the place. After adding the flowers to her collection, Anne brushed her hands on her skirt, picked up her flower basket, and started making her way back toward the house.

"I'll gather up a bouquet of my own," Lydia grumbled to herself, turning her gaze from the window and back to the newspaper. She shook out the financial page and stared at it, still quite unable to concentrate. "Basil and tansies and broken straw, and I'll dump the lot on Grandad's desk. That's what I'll do."

Grumble though she might, there wasn't much she could actually do. And doing something like tossing weeds on her boss's desk was most likely not the best way to go about proving that she was capable and even-tempered and worth listening to.

She'd practiced that pitch all morning. She'd worked for weeks. For nothing, as it turned out.

-0-

"Sir, I have an idea that I'd like to propose," she'd said, following her grandfather into his office that morning. Most of the employees had arrived shortly after Lydia had, followed by the five trustees gathering for the meeting. Grandad took off his coat and hat and held them out to her. After a moment she took them and hung them on the hat tree near the door.

"Bah, no need to bother with 'sir,' there's no one else about yet," Grandad said, giving her a wink before sitting at his desk. She couldn't help noticing he was a little slower than he used to be, even a year ago. He moved more gingerly, relying a bit more on his cane. Well, to be expected, she supposed. He wasn't exactly a spring chicken. Still, he was sharp as ever, and they got along very well. He waved her into the guest seat on the other side of the desk.

"Grandad, then," Lydia said, sitting down. She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from twisting about. Could it be she was nervous? She'd practiced this for weeks, she knew what she was talking about, and she was positive she had a brilliant plan. As she waited for grandfather to prompt her, she had to make a conscious effort to keep from tapping her foot in excitement. Yes, excitement, that's what it was. Grandad would love this plan, it was just like something he might come up with. The business would expand, they'd be even richer, and they'd have even more security.

And it would be all down to her. Her imagination jumped ahead, to when she'd be buying up properties, making deals, and, sooner or later, sitting just where Grandad was right now. Why, she could be just like Hetty Green.

Suddenly she was aware of the foot of Grandad's cane waving in front of her face. Startled out of her thoughts, she leaned her head back a bit and saw that her grandad was leaning over the desk, waving his cane as though trying to charm a snake out of a basket.

"Lydia?" Grandad said, his tone making it clear he'd said her name a couple of times already without her noticing. "Wake up, Miss Lydia, time to get to work now." He punctuated this last by gently nudging the end of her nose with the foot of the cane. Chuckling affectionately, Grandad eased himself back into his chair, hooking the cane to the armrest.

Lydia rubbed her nose, annoyed. It was highly unlikely anyone had ever bonked Hetty Green in the face with a cane.

"So what's this idea?" Grandad asked. "I'll give you five minutes. Meeting this morning, you know."

"Yes," she said, nodding. "I'll keep it quick, I promise." She took a deep breath and said, "I've got some ideas for improving our business."

Grandad nodded slowly. "That's nice and vague," he said. Lydia blushed and looked at her feet. When she looked up again she found Grandad looking at her expectantly.

"Come on, out with it," he said, waving a hand. "You've already lost about forty-five seconds, girl."

"I think we should buy every cannery between here and Finland," she blurted, her words a rush. Grandad just stared at her.

"I think you'll find we've already got one of those," he finally said. He looked monumentally unimpressed. "Good effort, though. So if that's all-"

"No!" Lydia said, with more force than she'd intended. She took another deep breath, and went on more calmly, "No, that's not what I meant. I mean we should buy them and _expand_. Grandad, there are a half a dozen different canneries between here and the coast, and none of them are making a profit. In fact, we're doing the best of anyone even remotely close by, and we're the farthest away from the markets!"

"Ah," Grandad said, sitting back in his seat and steepling his fingers. "But we're doing well already. Extremely well, as you've pointed out. Why rock the boat, so to speak?"

"We _are _doing extremely well, but we can always do better," Lydia replied, warming up. She loved this. It was hard to keep her voice level and professional without any girlish enthusiasm creeping in when she went on, "I've done the math, done the projections. Van Dort's isn't the only cannery, but we're the most successful by far. Let's buy out the others."

"Buy them out?" Grandad sounded dubious.

"Yes. Our next step should be to eliminate our competition by absorbing them. They're all barely in the black anyway, and just think of what we could do with access to more equipment and trucks and the markets. We could even buy shares in the railroad and-" Grandad held up a hand.

"All right, take it easy there, Rockefeller," he said. Lydia stopped, watching as he twiddled his mustache, clearly thinking. Even though he didn't seem all that enthusiastic, his manner was full of pride and affection. But she already knew that he liked _her_. She wanted him to like her _idea_.

"I'll think about it," was all he said. Lydia bit her lip, hoping he'd add something. Praise, a nod, an offer to have his secretary arrange for her travel and lodgings, something. But no, nothing. Clearly she was dismissed.

"Thank you," she said, standing. When she got to the door she turned back. "Um..." she trailed off awkwardly. Grandad, who'd already begun sorting through some correspondence from the day before, looked up at her.

"You'll...let me know?" she asked, feeling awkward.

"About what?" he asked in return. Something in her expression must have clued him in, because he said, "Oh, yes, about starting a monopoly. Of course. You can leave now." With that, he turned back to his papers.

"Monopoly?" Lydia said to herself as she stepped back out onto the main office floor, closing the door behind her. She'd not thought of that. Oh well. She was reasonably certain they weren't illegal here. She'd have one of the lawyers check.

_That could've gone much better, _Lydia thought as she stopped by Father's secretary's desk for the correspondence. She should've brought her notes. She shouldn't have gotten nervous. Maybe Grandad would like it more the more he thought about it. How could the owner of a business be against _expanding_ the business?

Lost in mentally critiquing herself, Lydia went back to her office and sat down at the desk. She'd just picked up her pen when she heard a knock on the door.

"Yes?" she said. The door opened to reveal Ned. He didn't enter, just stood in the doorway. He was a man of average height and build, with a rather triangular face and wide-set eyes. There was something of the solemn schoolboy about him, but there was also usually a twinkle in his eyes behind his glasses.

"Morning, Van Dort," he said. Quite soon after they'd begun working together, he'd dispensed with addressing her as _miss_. Likewise, she'd dropped the _mister_ before his name. It made her feel rather good, really—there was a definite member-of-the-boys-club feel to it. He was the only one who addressed her that way.

"Morning, Weary," she replied. "Get your books, we'll get the accounting sorted before lunch, and then we can get a head start on next week." Best to jump right into the day's work, and not obsess over her meeting with Grandad.

Much to her surprise, Ned shook his head. "That's what I came in to say," he told her. "I'm stepping out for about an hour, if that's all right. Early break?" he finished hopefully.

"It's ten-thirty in the morning!" Honestly, didn't anyone here besides her actually _work_?

"I have a meeting," he said. Grinning a rather foolish grin, he took Anne's note from his pocket and waved it at her. Lydia rolled her eyes.

"Oh, fine," she told him, sitting down at her desk and pulling a stack of orders toward her. Then she looked Ned in the eye. "But only because my sister would be unhappy if you didn't show up."

"See you before lunch, I promise," Ned told her. Still grinning that same silly grin, he headed out the door. There was a definite spring to his step.

Lydia made another mental note for Anne: _No courting during work hours_.


	8. Primroses and Columbine

Wedding Flowers-Chapter 6, Part 2

As promised, Ned had returned about an hour later, a dopey grin on his face and a primrose on his lapel. At least he had the sense to remove it and put it in his pocket before settling down to work.

"Had a good time?" Lydia asked as Ned settled himself across the desk from her and opened a ledger. He smiled a little more broadly when he met her eye.

"Yes, thank you," he replied, and stared down at the open ledger. She nodded. Pleasantries completed, Lydia handed him a stack of invoices, ready to get down to business. At least, she tried to hand him the invoices. He didn't seem to notice that she was holding them out.

"Weary!" she said, smirking slightly when he jumped. Once she had his attention, she held the stack of invoices out farther. Finally, with a sheepish look, he took them.

"Sorry," he murmured. Lydia shook her head as she opened a ledger of her own. For a few minutes they worked in silence. Every now and again Ned would start humming a little under his breath. Too bad there was a desk between them, and she was unable to kick him in the shin.

Honestly, he was a grown man, and he was acting as though he were a lovesick schoolboy. Anne didn't find this tiresome? Did they just moon at each other when they went for walks? Did they actually ever talk to one another? She assumed they must, but Anne wasn't ever really forthcoming with details. She found herself wondering where Ned and Anne went on their outings. They made sure not to be seen together inside village walls. Lydia had been surprised to learn that Anne was that clever. Or sneaky, whichever.

The secrecy made sense. Village life was one of constant scrutiny, particularly when one was an heiress with connections to fairly important people. Especially when those important people were blood relations, nosy, and had houses that sat right on the town square. There were bound to be unpleasant repercussions if anyone—namely, Grandmother or Grandmamma—were to discover that Anne Van Dort, wealthy heiress, was being wooed by an accountant. And Father...he'd be more upset by the wooing itself than the station of the person who was doing it.

Still, Lydia rather liked being a bit subversive, so she was happy to keep Anne's secret. At the same time it was becoming clear that they couldn't keep it a secret forever—she very much had an inkling that, unlike Catherine's many flirtations, this particular courtship was heading in a serious direction.

"Say, Van Dort," Ned said suddenly. Lydia looked up to see him staring at her with what was very nearly a shifty, almost uncomfortable look.

"What?" she asked. But rather than continuing, Ned dropped his gaze back to his work. "What?" she prompted again. Now Ned gave a little sigh, put his pen down, and sat back in his chair. Lydia just stared at him, waiting.

"I was just thinking," he eventually said, then stopped. After a moment he ran a hand across his forehead and continued, "Well...it's just...I've been seeing your sister for a while, now, and..." he trailed off.

Instead of reaching across the desk and shaking him until a coherent sentence fell out, as she very much wanted to do, Lydia said, "Yes? Come on, out with it." But she was pretty sure she had an idea of what he was going to say. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about hearing it.

"Van Dort, I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to-" he began, but was cut off when the office door opened and Grandad walked in. Ned and Lydia both jumped to their feet.

"Morning, Mr. Weary!" Grandad said cheerfully. "Get out, please!"

"Morning, sir," said Ned, hastily stepping aside so that Grandad could take his seat. "Yes, sir." He gathered up the ledgers and invoices, then glanced at Lydia.

"I'll finish this," he told her, heading for the door. Lydia looked at Grandad, now comfortably settled in Ned's vacated seat, and then at Ned's back.

"And about the other...um, issue?" she said awkwardly, trying not to give anything away, what with Grandad in the room. Ned stopped in the doorway and turned toward her.

"Oh, it was nothing," he said, his tone suggesting the opposite. "I'm sure I can figure it out, thank you," he added, almost to himself. With that, he headed into his own office with the books, closing the door quietly behind him.

"So!" Grandad said, rubbing his palms together as Lydia sat back down. "Good news, girl. The trustees loved that idea of yours. I was a bit surprised, but, there you are."

For a second Lydia could only gape. All the breath seemed to leave her as she processed Grandad's words. Then she put a hand to her mouth.

"They liked it? We'll do it?" she finally managed, too pleased to care that her voice was getting that girlish note in it again. Grandad nodded.

"Have the lawyers make sure we're not going to run into any trouble, and then we can get started," he said.

"What first?" Lydia asked, trying to sound professional and not give away that she was beside herself with happiness and excitement.

"First pull your notes together and give them to Mr. Van Schelven. He'll work them into a proper contract."

"Oh," she said. That was unexpected. She'd figured she'd get to do that. Though perhaps Grandad was right-Mr. Van Schelven had more experience than she did, and was, more or less, second-in-command at the cannery. A man of about her father's age, Mr. Van Schelven was the largest company shareholder aside from the Van Dorts themselves. As Lydia understood it, his father had been a schoolmate of Grandad's, had worked for her great-grandfather, and had actually fronted some of the money to get the business started.

This was okay. She didn't mind working with Mr. Van Schelven. He was nice enough, and good at business, and always treated her respectfully. Maybe he'd even be able to give her a few pointers about performing mergers. Okay, then.

"And after that?" she asked. "I mean, what happens then?" It wasn't as though she'd done this before, after all.

"Then...sit back and wait for the sales to come through, I suppose," Grandad said. "Oh, and then it'll be your job to find managers for all of our new branches. Shouldn't be too hard, I'm sure we won't have to fire everyone at the places we're buying."

"I don't...I mean...I don't get to go?" Lydia asked before she could stop herself. She hated that she sounded like a twelve-year-old girl who'd just been told she was too young for a dinner party. But at the same time...that was sort of how she felt. To her horror, Grandad laughed as though she'd just told a very droll little joke.

"What, you mean to meet with the other owners?" he asked, and chuckled again when Lydia nodded. "No, no, Mr. Van Schelven will go. Business dealings are a man's job, so we'll send a man to do it."

"But...it was my idea," she said. She didn't know whether to scream, throw up, or cry. Maybe all three at once.

"And it's a good one, that's why we're using it," Grandad said, seemingly quite unaware of the effect his words were having. Lydia slumped a bit and stared at the desktop as he continued, "Now really, what would people think of me, sending a young lady all over the country to meet up with strange men and conduct business? It wouldn't look good for any of us." So saying, he stood up. It took Lydia a moment to get up the gumption to stand up herself.

"I'll send Van Schelven in, then, and you can hand over the work you've done," Grandad said as he made his way to the door. He sounded way too cheerful, in Lydia's opinion. "Just you wait, once these deals go through, we'll have a regular empire!"

With that, he was gone. Lydia sank back down, feeling as though she'd been hollowed out. So that was that, then. She'd thought she'd proven herself. _Man's job_. _A girl_. _Wouldn't look good_. Now she had to hand over all of the work she'd done, and let someone else have the fun and take all the credit.

Here she'd thought she'd impressed everyone enough that she'd be able to own the whole place one day. What a joke. Maybe Mother had been right, in that business wasn't the place for a young woman. Maybe it was better to just get married. At least then she'd have a bit more freedom to do as she liked, as long as her husband was agreeable. How ironic it was—in order to gain some independence, she'd have to bind herself to someone.

She propped her elbows on the desk, buried her face in her hands, and decided she'd had enough for the day.

-0-

Replaying the episode made her feel sick all over again. She felt as though she simply couldn't face going to work again. Yet at the same time, she didn't want to give up. She couldn't just give up.

But she wanted to.

With a sigh she leaned her forehead against the window, enjoying the feel of the cool glass on her skin. As her thoughts continued to swirl she was dimly aware of the front door opening and closing. Soon enough she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Liddie, are you all right?" Anne asked softly as she pulled back her hand. Lydia turned to look at her.

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied. Not wanting to wallow anymore, she said, "It looks as though you've got some nice flowers." Anne nodded, and held up the basket rather unnecessarily.

"I think so," she said with a smile. "But rather more than I need. Here, you have one."

Reaching into the basket, she pulled out a flower and held it out to Lydia. Since it was a nice gesture, Lydia took the flower without making any remarks about how she had nowhere to put it and that it would wilt and rot practically overnight.

"I'd best go ask Alice for a vase," Anne said. After regarding Lydia for a moment, she added, "I'll be in the kitchen, if you need me."

"Thanks," Lydia replied. After watching Anne leave, she held the flower between her fingers and gave it a little twirl. She wondered if her sister'd given her this particular bloom on purpose. _Probably just a coincidence, _she thought, bringing the flower to her nose again.

It was a purple columbine. _Resolve to win._


	9. Small Problems

Wedding Flowers-Chapter 7

Victoria knelt on the ground in the garden, pruning the Alba roses. She wore a large apron over her lightweight blouse and skirt, her usual gardening attire. The morning had dawned warm and bright, the perfect sort of day to spend tending the flowers. The roses were just beginning to bloom. They were going to be beautiful this year.

The garden was such a pleasant place to be. Victoria paused in her careful snipping to gently stroke one of the roses, just on the brink of opening. Such a lovely white color, with just the faintest blush of pink. It was too bad she'd only discovered her talent for gardening fairly recently. She liked to make things grow. When she was younger she'd tended a winter jasmine plant that had sprung up quite of its own accord in her parents' gloomy back garden (a garden in name only, really-it was mostly shrubs and rocks), but that had been it. A flower garden was such a wonderful escape.

If there was anything she needed at the moment, it was a bit of an escape. There was simply so much going on all at once all of a sudden. She needed some time to think.

If only the family could have had just one sweet and lovely evening at home all together. She'd so been hoping for that. Everyone happy, having dinner, perhaps sitting in the garden if the evening stayed mild. Too much to hope for. The tone for the weekend had, unfortunately, been set by the ride home from the train station.

For starters, both she and Victor had been windblown and irritable on Friday evening after enduring an entire car ride's worth of lecturing and criticism from Nell. On top of that her hat had finally managed to escape when she'd let her guard down as they'd gone across a bridge. A gust had whipped it off her head and right into the river below. She'd liked that hat. They'd all arrived home well ahead of poor Mr. Reed, which put Catherine in a bit of a snit—the new dinner dress she'd had made and wanted to wear was among the luggage Mr. Reed was bringing back. Mary was still cross from being told off so many times on the ride home, and so had been quite sullen and tetchy well into dinner.

So the four of them had hardly been the cheeriest group when they'd walked through the door to be met by Anne and Lydia. Lydia had also been in a bad mood, though she'd tried to be cheerful. Well, as cheerful as Lydia got, anyway. Bad day at work, it seemed, though she didn't want to talk about it. Anne had made a lovely centerpiece, but she'd been quiet and not quite herself, somehow. Victoria had meant to talk to her. It wasn't the first time she'd behaved oddly lately. Something was going on, Victoria was quite sure about that. Another thing to think of.

More and more lately she wanted the girls to be small again, for their world to be small again. She'd learned how to deal with childhood problems. She wasn't sure she was ready for the problems of adult children. Skinned knees, lost ribbons, bad marks at school...those she could handle. Jobs, marriages, protective trust funds, titles...she wasn't always sure _she _was grown up enough for those problems. Sometimes she felt that she was far too ill-equipped to help ease the way for her daughters. So many problems she simply wasn't prepared for.

Problems. Foremost in her mind was how the argument she'd had with Nell in the car two days ago had not been a mere argument. Rather, it had proved to be the opening salvo in the latest battle in the ongoing War of Marrying Off the Van Dort Heiresses. Victoria, much like a grizzled lifelong campaigner, remembered the beginning of the conflict very well. It had been the day they'd received, quite out of the blue, an offer of a match for Lydia. It seemed that Nell had heard that some foreign oil tycoon had conveniently just had a son, and had taken it upon herself to write a few letters. Lydia had been three weeks old at the time, and had thus been unable to say much when presented with the idea.

Thus hostilities had been opened. Victoria had been running a defensive campaign ever since.

Victoria had thought of the two-month society tour Nell had taken Catherine on as a quiet period, a Country House Campaign fought on foreign soil—all she'd needed to do was monitor movements from behind her own lines. She hadn't worried. She'd known it was a bad strategy. Marriages were brokered at balls and dinner parties and by private introduction, not at extended country house visits where the only guests were dowager countesses, playboy nephews, and minor gentlemen whose glory days were far behind them. Nell seemed to be the only one who didn't quite grasp this, and Victoria wasn't entirely sure she'd have shared her insider information even if she'd been directly asked.

All's fair in war, after all.

Her lengthy and expensive campaign having resulted in nothing but a few standing strictly platonic dinner invitations, Nell had been quick with her offensive once back on home ground. By Saturday afternoon three letters of introduction from eligible bachelors in the area had arrived for Catherine. Well, except for the one mysteriously addressed to a Katrina Van Dort, a mistake most likely the result of a bad telephone connection. In any event, the letters had, after responses of "No, thank you" and "Ew, no" respectively, from Catherine, been tossed right into the bin. But more would come, Victoria was certain. The only way to end this conflict was with a wedding.

Victoria wasn't ready for that yet. She still had plenty of fight in her, and she'd have plenty just as long as her daughters needed her to. Maybe that barbed-wire topped stockade fence wasn't such a bad idea. It would at least keep out the postman.

Just as she set aside the shears and went about spreading a bit of mulch, there was a sudden rumble in the distance. Straightening up, she looked around. It sounded like thunder, but the day was perfectly clear. The rumble turned to a whining roar, as though the sky were about to rend itself in two. Victoria shaded her eyes and looked up in time to see an aeroplane overhead. She frowned as she watched it pass over the house and disappear over the trees. There had been more lately. It was hard to tell where they were headed, but wherever they were going, it most likely was not a visit for pleasure.

Sometimes it was rather nice to live in an isolated, almost folklorish place, so untouched by other parts of the world. To be able to have relatively small, folklorish problems—marrying off daughters, worried husbands, mother-in-laws. Mulch that didn't seem to want to spread the way she wanted it to. Bending down farther, she reached under the rosebush for better access.

When she was satisfied, she extracted herself from the bush carefully, avoiding being poked in the eye by errant bits of vegetation. Swiping a bit of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she turned to find herself, much to her surprise, looking at Victor's knees. He'd managed to quite sneak up on her. She leaned back, looking up to see him standing over her. He was shading his eyes with his hand as he looked out toward the treeline behind the house.

"Did you see that aeroplane?" he asked. There were still a few trails of smoke marking where it had gone by.

"I did, yes," she replied, wiping her hands on her apron. Victor knelt down next to her, his gaze still skyward. "Where do you suppose it was going?"

"Far away from here, I hope," he said. Victoria nodded. She hoped so, too. Together they watched the trails of smoke disperse and, after a moment, disappear. Victor turned to her.

"You've some dirt on your forehead," he said with a smile. He reached over and brushed at her brow with a gentle thumb, adding, "Clearly you've been hard at work."

"It's a nice day for it," she said, lifting a corner of her apron to wipe the rest of the soil from her face. "You're home early."

Today had been one of the rare days that Victor had gone to the cannery. He wasn't due home until evening—he usually took lunch at his parents' with Lydia on days he went to work. Much to her surprise, Victor heaved a sigh and stood up. She watched him as he made his way to the stone bench beside the hedge. He sat heavily, elbows on his knees, and rolled his eyes skyward before looking over at her again. Oh dear. His expression wasn't promising.

"Just for a little while, I have to go back," he said. "I just needed a break. And a walk."

"Is everything all right?" she asked, standing up and untying her apron. She took it off and folded it absentmindedly as she walked over and joined Victor on the bench.

"It's a madhouse over there," he said after a moment, running his fingers over his forehead. "Apparently we're expanding. Some idea that Mr. Van Schelven had, I think. So there's lots of work to do. Contracts, visits with lawyers, I'm not even sure what all."

"But...surely that's a good thing. Isn't it?" Victoria said uncertainly. Her grasp on how commerce and industry worked was tenuous. As was Victor's, she knew. The only ones who really seemed to understand and to thrive on it were William and Lydia. Lydia especially.

"I suppose," he said. "I hope it's worth the fuss and bother. The plan is for us to buy at least six other canneries that are failing, and then make them all part of Van Dort's Fish."

"Oh," was all Victoria could think to say. It seemed a safe enough reply. Victor let out a laugh that sounded more like a _humph_, and looked at her sideways.

"Oh indeed," he said. She watched as he frowned down at the grass before going on, "Not just other canneries. Shares in the railroad, more fishing boats, more employees. We'll have our own little empire. Imagine that. A fish empire."

Victoria frowned, toying with the folded apron in her lap. She agreed it sounded like an awful lot of work, and quite stressful, and she knew that lots of work and stress were both items that were near the top of her husband's list of dislikes. But it seemed like there was something more that he wasn't saying. She put a hand on his elbow.

"It's just...oh, I don't know," he said, rubbing his forehead again as though trying to massage out his thoughts. "I was indifferent enough to owning a shop and a little piece of canning equipment. Now suddenly I'm going to inherit a whole country's worth of canneries. _Two _countries' worth, if I looked at the map right. I'll be asked to run the entire _industry_."

Ah. She was beginning to see, now. Making a sympathetic noise, she ran a comforting hand over his back. He was extremely tense, particularly through the shoulders. After a moment of silence, he let out his breath in a gusty sigh, and met her gaze briefly before looking away again.

"I'm not cut out for this," he said, putting a hand on her knee. For a little while they just sat there on the bench together. Victoria wasn't quite sure what to say to him. Nothing would make him feel all that much better, she knew. So she just stayed there with him, letting her hand travel lightly over his back as she considered.

"What about Lydia?" she finally ventured. Victor looked at her, his expression a questioning one. "Lydia is cut out for it," she clarified. Victor just continued to stare.

"She is, that's for certain," he said slowly. "But I thought you didn't...that is, I didn't think you, quite, well..."

"Approved?" Victoria finished for him. He shrugged a little. Now it was her turn to sigh.

It was true, the idea of a lady working with a bunch of men was a foreign one to her, and it made her a bit uncomfortable. But that wasn't truly it, not if she was honest. Lydia was so strong, so capable and smart. The world wasn't always understanding of women like that. It worried her that life wasn't going to work out the way Lydia wanted it to. On the one hand she couldn't help but feel rather proud for raising such a determined young woman. On the other, that admirable trait just might prove to be a source of unhappiness for her daughter.

That wasn't the issue right now, though. Nor did she want to make it the issue. So all she said was, "The longer it goes on the harder I find it to disapprove." Victor just nodded, so she went on, "Why not give it all to Lydia? Let her run the empire."

"Believe me, I'd like to," he said. "But...what would people think?" Victoria cocked an eyebrow.

"They'd think it's your business and you may do as you please with it," she said. "Including passing it along to your daughter." There was a pause.

"You're right. But...that's a way off, I think," he told her, giving her knee a squeeze. "The place isn't mine to do as I like with _yet_. So I'll just have to do the work as my little girl tells me to, I suppose. She knows just what's going on, it's quite remarkable."

He gave her a crooked smile. She smiled back as she stood up. Then, after glancing about to make sure they were quite alone, she leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Everything will be fine," she murmured to him. He nodded, patting her arm. She wished she actually felt as sure as she sounded. She tied her apron back on and went back to the rosebush to collect her pruning shears. Feeling quite reflective, she began snipping at one of the lilac bushes. Those always needed a firm hand and lots of attention, or else they went quite wild.

"Oh, by the way," Victor said, rising from the bench and coming over to her, hands behind his back. She turned. Oh dear again. He was wearing another unpromising expression, but for different reasons. This was the one Victor wore when he was sure she wasn't going to like what he was going to say. She waited.

"We're having a dinner party tomorrow," he said, clearly trying to soften the blow with an effusively cheery tone. Victoria stared. This was news to her. Since when did Victor plan parties? He'd never liked entertaining. And he'd planned it without telling her?

"Victor! A dinner party? _Tomorrow?_" she said, gaping at him. A dinner party on a day's notice? For how many? And why on _earth_...Too many questions swirled around in her brain, causing a bit of a pile-up that rendered her silent. Luckily Victor was quick to take her hand and preemptively try to calm her down.

"Just for your parents and mine," he explained quickly, sounding eerily like his own father trying to talk Nell down from a fit of temper. She hoped she hadn't seemed _that _upset. Anyway, she let him go on, "Look, Father told me this morning that Mother wanted to have a big dinner party, supposedly as a welcome-home gathering for Mary and Catherine. But she wanted to invite all sorts of...you know..." He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"Gentlemen?" Victoria supplied. _Aha, _she thought, _the offensive continues. Man the battle stations._

"That's one word," he said darkly. "But anyway. I said we'd host a dinner instead, without any..._prospects_ there, and that we could talk more about...arranging m-m-marriages." He seemed to choke a little on that last word. Looking uncertain, he scanned her face.

"So," she said slowly, "it's a diplomatic sort of dinner, then?" She smiled a bit to see Victor look relieved, if a bit confused by her wording.

"Ah yes, yes, that's a good way to put it," he said, squeezing her hand. "I do hope you're not too cross, it was the only thing I could come up with." Gently, Victoria pulled her hand away.

"I'm not cross," she said, only lying a little. "But I'd best go meet with Mrs. Reed and Alice, if we're entertaining tomorrow evening."

Victor opened his mouth to say something, but was drowned out by the thunderous noise of another aeroplane going overhead. They both looked up. This one was flying quite low, rather alarmingly low, passing over the village before disappearing into the distance, leaving nothing but a trail of smoke behind. Two in one day, in the space of an hour. _That _had never happened before. Victoria met Victor's gaze. He looked as worried as she felt. Without a word he put an arm over her shoulders and pulled her to him, briefly, as they listened to the aeroplane's noise fade away.

A dinner party. A fish empire. A wedding-crazed grandmother. Small problems.

Everything would be fine.


	10. Dressing for Dinner

Wedding Flowers-Chapter Eight

Strains of music could be heard from Mary's room a floor above as Victor and Anne worked side by side at the desk in the study. It wasn't often they had musical accompaniment as they sorted through research. Nor did they often wear full dinner dress. But seeing as how there was still some time until the guests were due to arrive, and both of them had just been hovering about with nothing to do after they'd finished dressing (well ahead of everyone else, as usual), they'd gone to the study to get some work done. He had Anne looking through his notebooks from his last collecting trip for any relevant place names or notes, as he had a closer look at one of his mounted specimens for the next article he planned to write.

Victor had an idea the work might calm him a bit, too. In-control and sharp as he might look in his tuxedo, he felt completely unprepared mentally for tonight's planned "diplomatic dinner." The Van Dorts didn't usually entertain—he still felt a little guilty for springing this party on poor Victoria on such short notice. However, after a bit of discussion, she'd agreed that it was better to sit down and discuss the idea of marrying off the girls in concrete terms, rather than all of the back-room deals and mystery letter business that had been going on for years. Neither of them were really looking forward to the evening. For his own part, he felt as though he was preparing for a council of war. Diplomacy, indeed. At least he could feel secure in the knowledge that he was a lieutenant serving under a very competent commanding officer.

It was hard to tell how the girls felt about all this. They knew how their grandmothers felt about marrying them off. Truly, it had begun to seem a bit of a joke to them. As far as Victor could tell they found it tiresome but non-threatening. They knew, rightly, that Victor and Victoria would never simply sell them to the highest bidder. So tonight was an excuse to dress up and enjoy some free entertainment in the form of familial sparring. Victor rather envied them that security and freedom, yet he also felt a certain pride in doing his protective duty as Father.

To further keep the evening interesting, Lydia had invited young Mr. Weary from work to join them, so at least they'd have someone closer to their own age to socialize with. He'd also make a good buffer, in the event that the evening's talks broke down—the respective grandmothers might hold themselves in check a bit with a non-family member present. Victor didn't mind Ned Weary. He was polite and had asked intelligent questions about local moths the last time he'd come for dinner. That must have been a month or so ago now. Vaguely he wondered why Lydia hadn't invited him over in so long.

As he hunched over the mounted butterfly with his magnifying glass, he was finding it difficult to concentrate on head detail and wing markings. Rather, he found himself trying to think up new ways to tell his mother and mother-in-law that his daughters were not on the market. That they had no interest in arranging marriages with men they had never met. Perhaps he could tell them all of the girls had decided to devote their lives to God and were going to move to a convent in the Alps.

Hm. Maybe he could _actually _send the four of them to a convent in the Alps. Just temporarily. They'd thank him later.

Anne seemed a little jumpy, Victor couldn't help noticing. She kept stealing glances out of the window that gave a slightly obscured view of the drive. Every time he looked over at her she seemed to be touching her dress or patting at her hair or adjusting some little bit of fabric. She'd been very quiet, too. Not that they usually chatted much. But it seemed there was something different about this silence. Almost a nervousness, or expectation.

He figured it was all down to nerves related to tonight's planned discussion of which nobleman or industrialist she might like to be auctioned off to, immediately or in future. Being the topic of conversations like that wasn't something she was used to. Poor Anne was usually left out of engagement talks, a result of being quiet, unremarkable, and third in line. Not that Victor felt all too terrible about it, apart from being a trifle insulted on her behalf—if gentlemen had any sense they'd be falling all over themselves wanting to marry Anne.

Not that he wanted that to happen. At all. It was the principle of the thing.

In any event, she certainly looked nice. She'd even had Catherine do something with her hair for her—it was up, as usual, but there was something more...structural about it. Her knot of hair seemed to extend farther from the back of her head than it usually did, with lots of curl and sweep, and two wispy little ringlets framing her face. She looked very elegant and grown-up, what with the fancy hair and her simple blue dress. Again, probably not something she was used to. No wonder she was fidgety and a bit uncomfortable, she didn't usually dress up.

"You look nice," Victor finally told her, after he looked up to find her once again running her palm over her hair, as though checking to make sure it was still there.

"You think so? Really?" she asked, looking down at herself. Before he could finish nodding she continued in a rush, "Catherine said my dress was wrong, that you can't wear a tea dress to dinner, but Mother said it was fine, and the only other nice dress I have is my evening gown and that's too fancy, I didn't want to look too dressed up, but I didn't want to _not_ be dressed up and so I wore this..."

She trailed off, biting her lip and looking at him with large, nervous eyes, as though _he _knew the ins and outs of ladies' fashion and could provide some guidance.

"I don't think it matters," he said when he was pretty sure she was done with her sentence. Then he shrugged, feeling helpless. She looked fine. It was a dress. It had elbow-length sleeves on, and a satin sash around her middle, and one of those strange-looking layered skirts. He shrugged again. Since when did this sort of thing matter to her, anyway? Besides, it was just her grandparents and Ned Weary coming to dinner, not anyone she hadn't met or had reason to be anxious about.

He noticed Anne begin to twist at the lace edging her skirt, a nervous gesture he knew all too well. She clearly needed further calming. So he gave her hand a quick pat and said, "You look very nice. Very grown-up. Light blue is pretty on you."

Much to his relief she smiled widely, touched her hair again, and looked pleased. Oh good. That had been the right answer. As his daughters had grown older he had noticed, much to his dismay, that the number of right answers he gave seemed to be inversely proportional to their ages. At the same time he probably shouldn't push his luck. Time to steer this father-daughter conversation back into more secure and comfortable waters.

"Here, have a look at this," he said, handing her the magnifying glass and sliding the specimen toward her. "Is that forewing gray or blue, would you say?"

"There you both are!" Victor and Anne looked up to see Catherine standing in the doorway. She was also in her dinner dress, but she was far more done up, accessorized, and coiffed than Anne. "We're all in the entry already, come along or you'll be late!"

"We're coming," Victor said, standing. He picked up the notebooks from the desk and carried them over to the bookshelf next to the window. Turning back, he held out his hand for the magnifying glass, but Anne wasn't paying attention. She was looking at Catherine there in the doorway. He looked over as well.

_How is it_, Victor wondered as he studied his second-born,_ that Catherine always seems to know just where to stand in order to catch the most flattering light?_ With a talent like that she could pose for religious paintings of saints when he packed her off to that convent.

"My," Anne breathed, "You look so nice. I like your dress." Victor thought he detected a bit of envy in her tone.

"Thank you!" Catherine trilled. "It's a party dress, the very latest!" Holding out her arms she gave a little twirl that carried her a bit farther into the room. It also showed off her dress, which, on closer inspection, seemed to be more strategically layered pink tulle than an actual dress. She ended the spin with a little pose, almost like a ballerina preparing to take a leap. Ballerina indeed. The skirt was pouffy enough. And, he noticed with a disapproving shake of his head, just about short enough. For heaven's sake, it only just came down to the middle of her calf.

Then she looked at Victor, beaming, seemingly oblivious to his disapproval. "What do you think, Father? How do I look?"

Wonderful, twice in one night. At least with Anne he could just be vaguely reassuring. But Catherine, he knew, expected praise that bordered on awe. Looking at her in her party dress, he didn't think he could give it. Not in good conscience. Her neckline was too low, her skirt was too short, and this dress had only the merest, flimsiest suggestion of sleeves. A little draping of sheer fabric over the upper arms were not sleeves. As far as he was concerned they didn't count as sleeves if the wearer's arms were still visible, and Catherine's certainly were.

"You..." he paused, then tried again. "You...er..." Catherine's smile faded a bit, and her arms began to droop.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"That's certainly a dress!" he finally told her, with what he hoped was a winning smile. Clearly not winning enough, for Catherine frowned. Then she blinked, slowly, and put one hand to the base of her throat. Oh dear. He knew that look. Next would come the misting over of the eyes, then the dramatic turning away. Sighing, he tried to come up with a compliment quickly.

"You're lovely," Victor said, figuring that was safe enough. Luckily Catherine just dipped her head and smiled at him, and did not ask for specifics.

"Many thanks," she replied, daintily holding out her skirt and giving a little curtsy. In spite of himself Victor smiled at her. Fretting and disapproval had become such a reflex when it came to Catherine that he rather felt he'd almost forgotten her good qualities, such as her sense of fun and her exuberance. As he looked at her there, happy and glowing in her new dress and jewelry, he decided he'd make more of an effort with her now that she was home again.

"Did Mary change her mind?" he asked, changing the subject. "Will she come down to greet everyone, at least?"

"Ha!" Catherine replied, patting at her hair in a gesture clearly learned from Victor's mother. "No, she's still in _quite _a little mood. Couldn't you hear her up there, stomping about and making a fuss?" Victor sighed, and nodded. Yes, he'd heard.

Mary'd been so touchy since she'd come home from school, over the oddest things. It was particularly strange tonight because she knew the evening social event rule. They'd enforced it with all of the girls—grown-up dinner parties were for the over-seventeens. And it went double for this dinner. Victor and Victoria didn't want her present for any discussions of engagements or marriage prospects, particularly after Nell's comments about her the previous week. Upon being told that she was, sadly, cordially not invited to the evening's affair, beyond helping to receive guests, Mary had stomped upstairs in a huff, and then locked herself in her bedroom with the gramophone. Rather proving the point, in Victor's opinion.

Unfortunately, Mary's room was right above the study, so he and Anne had heard quite a bit of her "little mood," as Catherine had put it. At least she'd finally switched to that Irving Heidelberg fellow, or whatever his name was. Before that she'd been playing an old _Pinafore _recording over and over. If he'd had to listen to _Never Mind the Why and Wherefore_ once more, no matter how faint, he'd have gone upstairs and tossed the gramophone out the window.

Oh well. If she wasn't coming down, she wasn't coming down. Maybe he could convince her to play a game of checkers with him after dinner, if she wasn't already asleep. He'd not had a chance to spend much time with her lately. Poor Mary had rather been lost in the shuffle, what with all of the flurry of activity.

"Really though, we must go greet the guests," Catherine said, all business again. Suddenly a slightly mischievous look stole over her face as she glanced over at Anne. "Mr. Weary should be here any moment—we saw him coming down the road in his trap on our way downstairs."

Victor was about to make a reply, but was cut off by a sudden crash as Anne fumbled and dropped the magnifying glass onto the floor. A second, more spectacular crash followed when she knocked her chair over backward in her haste to pick it up. She stood slowly, her cheeks pink. Carefully she set the glass on the desktop, and then righted her chair, Victor leaning over to help.

"Are you all right?" he asked her. She nodded quickly, her hands seeming to go in ten different directions at once as she smoothed and patted at her dress and hair. Then, head bowed, she went to join Catherine at the door.

"She's fine," said Catherine, wrapping her arm around Anne's waist. Straightening her sash for her, she added, "Aren't you, Anne?" After taking a rather trembly breath, Anne nodded, then grinned a little. Then, for some reason, the pair of them giggled as they pulled each other into a closer one-armed hug. At a loss, and not knowing quite what was funny, Victor just gazed at them for a moment before stowing the magnifying glass and specimen case safely away in the cabinet next to the desk.

"I'll go meet N—I mean, go wait for the guests," Anne finally managed. Catherine smiled at her, then threw Victor a knowing sort of look. As he had no idea what he was supposed to know, he was unable to return it. With her cheeks still rather pink, and her hands still seemingly unsure of where they wanted to go, Anne left the room.

"Shall we, Father?" Catherine asked. "Everyone's waiting." Victor, still trying to work out what was going on—and, in all honesty, still feeling completely ill-equipped for the evening's affair—shook his head.

"You go on ahead, dear," he said, walking around the desk to join her at the study door. He put a hand lightly on her back and added, "Tell your Mother I'll be along shortly, I'm just finishing up a note or two." Catherine gave him a squinty sort of look, then shrugged a little.

"All right," she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder as she left. "But don't be too long!"

"I won't," he assured her. He closed the study door, and leaned his forehead against it for a moment. He wouldn't take long—he knew how Catherine and Victoria liked everything to be prompt. He just needed some time to collect his thoughts.

Sitting back down at the desk, he looked at Anne's vacated chair. What was going on with her this evening? There was something, he was sure. Footsteps, much quieter and less angry-sounding than earlier, came from overhead as Mary walked over to crank the gramophone again. At least he figured that's what she was doing, as music sounded again soon after. He tilted his head to listen. Ah—yet again she'd borrowed his Beethoven recording without asking. Leaning back in his chair he rubbed his forehead.

He could do this. It would all be fine. Just dinner with the family. He and Victoria would be a united front, and maybe this time they wouldn't be ignored. If they were...he wasn't sure how much longer he could put up with this marriage arranging business. All of the family in-fighting, the worrying, the strange men sending letters and asking to see his daughters, as though they were horses up for sale. Victor rubbed his forehead again.

Maybe they could _all _go to that convent in the Alps. It was looking like a more attractive solution with each passing moment.


	11. A Defection in the Ranks

Wedding Flowers-Chapter Nine

Victoria stood at the parlor window, watching as young Mr. Weary crossed the bridge in his sporty little trap. Lydia had invited him quite without asking—she'd merely informed Victor and Victoria that she'd done so at work that day, and that he'd said he'd love to come. Victoria had no idea why. Perhaps he was bored, and thought any outing might be a diversion. Then again, he and Lydia were friends, it had been a while since he'd come for tea or for dinner, and he was a nice young man. It would probably be all right. Provided all of the grandparents behaved themselves.

Lydia was sitting quietly on the sofa near the fireplace, absently flipping through one of Mary's discarded magazines. They'd made the joint executive decision to move to the parlor from the entry after Catherine had gone to fetch Victor and Anne. After years of experience, they both knew getting the two of them out of the study might take a while, so they might as well wait comfortably instead of standing around at the foot of the stairs. Alice, very smart-looking in her seldom-worn dress uniform, was at her post by the front door ready to receive and announce the guests. She'd also been left with instructions to go tell Mary to turn the music down as soon as all of the guests had arrived.

Victoria had to hold back a sigh. Through the dim twilight she could just see her parents' ornate carriage making its way through the village gates. Still no sign of Victor's parents, but they were certain to be on their way. Most likely their arrival would be announced with a car horn. She held back another sigh, this time gritting her teeth against it. She still wasn't sure what this dinner was supposed to achieve. Nothing new would come of it. It was bound to be nothing more than another skirmish, another round in the same old fight. Just thinking about it made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Still, she was determined to remain calm, to keep up her well-practiced self-mastery. Unflappable, collected, mistress of her home.

Inside, though, Victoria had a mad desire to throw off her pink silk dinner dress, put on her dressing gown, and go lock herself in with Mary and spend the evening listening to records. Perhaps even stomp around a little herself, just for good measure. Let the rest of them deal with the dinner party, with arranging marriages, with all the rest of it. Just for once.

"Mother, are you all right?" came Lydia's voice from behind her. Victoria turned to find her half-turned on the sofa, looking at her with an expression of concern.

"Yes, of course," Victoria replied, clamping down on that impulse to run while she had the chance. "Why do you ask?"

Lydia gave a little shrug, setting her magazine down on the end table. Slowly she rose from the sofa, and then, as though making a sudden decision, made her way over to join Victoria at the window.

As Victoria watched her cross the room, it struck her how very, well, _handsome _her daughter was. That was really the only word for her. Her resemblance to Victor really was remarkable, and yet she managed to look quite different at the same time. The difference seemed to be in the way she carried herself, the way she strode. So tall and slender, but not in a delicate, willowy way. Especially in her one nice dinner gown, which was made of navy blue silk with gold edging on the square neckline and the edges of the rather short sleeves, and also along the empire waist. With the style of the dress, her flat shoes, and the simple way she bound up her hair, she looked like a Greek statue come to life._ Athena, _Victoria decided.

"You just had a strange expression on your face, that's all," Lydia replied. Victoria couldn't help noticing that Lydia was wearing a rather peculiar look herself. Troubled, almost. Wondering, she watched as Lydia sank down onto the window seat.

"I'm sorry you're so worked up about tonight," Lydia added. "About Grandmamma wanting to pick out husbands for all of us by the end of the night, I mean."

Victoria frowned. She hadn't realized she'd been quite so transparent. Then again, her feelings probably weren't that difficult to figure out. Still, there was something odd in Lydia's tone, something beyond concern. Victoria thought for a moment. Lydia had been acting strangely all evening. Quieter than usual, no sardonic remarks or teasing. Actually, the more she thought about it, Lydia had been that way ever since last week, when she'd had that bad day at work. Some of her usual pluck seemed to be missing. All of a sudden Victoria realized that Lydia hadn't teased or had a friendly bicker with Catherine since she'd come home. That should have been a clear sign something was wrong.

Immediately Victoria felt guilty. She'd been so wrapped up in her fighting with Nell, and then getting Mary and Catherine settled again, that she had clearly missed something important going on right under her nose. For a moment she just looked at her daughter, trying to catch her eye. But Lydia seemed to be avoiding her gaze.

"Don't worry about me," Victoria said gently, sitting down next to her and putting a hand on Lydia's wrist. "Let your father and I worry. It's not worth upsetting yourself. There isn't much you can do about your grandmothers, I'm afraid."

Lydia pulled her wrist away, and folded her hands in her lap. "Yes, there is," she replied, finally turning and looking Victoria in the eye. "Let's let them go ahead and pick a husband for me."

Victoria blinked. She'd not been expecting that. For a long moment they just stared at one another.

"Lydia," she finally said, looking at her closely, "What are you saying?"

"Just what I mean to say," Lydia said, frowning and casting her gaze to the floor. Her jaw was set. "It's about time I got married. All of this silliness with working..." She had to pause there when her voice grew a bit hoarse. Clearly embarrassed, she glanced quickly at Victoria before looking away again.

_Working was silliness? _Victoria was truly shocked. She'd thought she'd heard it all as far as Lydia was concerned, that there couldn't possibly be any more surprises. Memories of Lydia's teenage years started flitting through her mind. When she'd been fifteen, and had said: _I've decided I'd rather not go to finishing school, Mother. _At eighteen: _No thank you, I'm not interested in having a debut_. At nineteen: _Mother, I'm taking secretarial courses by mail. _At twenty-one: _Mother, I want to go to work at the cannery._

But marriage...that was a new one. Not even as a little girl had Lydia shown any interest in a future wedding, as Victoria had. And Lydia, for all of her wonderful qualities, was definitely not the type to sacrifice herself just to please her grandparents or to foster family peace. Something else was going on here. Before she could say anything, though, Lydia spoke.

"I give up, Mother," she said, quietly and sadly. She slumped forward and buried her face in her hands, so that her next words were muffled. "I've thought it through. It's time I stopped fighting the inevitable. I'm the oldest, I'm a girl, the whole point of my life is to get married. I'll marry some lord or something, anybody off of Grandmamma's list, it really doesn't matter..." She broke off again.

Lydia was much too young to sound so bitter. Victoria put her arm around her shoulders and drew her into an embrace, holding and petting her gently as she hadn't done since she was small. The point of her life was to marry? That didn't sound like Lydia. And furthermore, it wasn't true. Victoria had dedicated most of her adult life to making sure it wasn't true, not for Lydia nor for any of the girls. For several moments she just held Lydia close, wondering what in the world to say. As she considered, she heard a distant crashing noise from the direction of the study, and decided not to concern herself about it. There were more important things to contend with just at the moment.

"Darling, what on earth is going on?" she finally asked into Lydia's hair. From the drive out front came the sound of hooves and wheels crunching gravel. Mr. Weary, most likely. _Oh, go away! _Victoria thought fiercely. She wanted, she _needed_, to have this moment with her daughter. "Dear, please tell me."

In a rush, and spoken mostly into Victoria's shoulder, the story came out. About how no one at the cannery was taking Lydia seriously, about how this big expansion Victor had mentioned had all been her idea, and about how she wasn't getting any of the credit or being allowed to do any of the work. Even has she listened, made soothing sounds, and felt everything from disappointment to bitterness to anger on Lydia's behalf, Victoria was also very impressed. She'd known Lydia was smart and capable, but not to that degree. How terrible to have her skills and passion so exploited. And to hear that defeat and sadness in her voice, to hear that she was willing to just throw herself away...it was almost too much for Victoria to bear.

"Oh, my dear," Victoria said once Lydia had finished, "I'm sorry your grandfather did that to you. But throwing yourself into marriage is hardly the answer. You'd be unhappy, you know you would."

"It seems the best solution, though," Lydia replied, her voice dull. Victoria made a protesting noise, but Lydia continued, "It does! Grandmamma and Grandmother would leave you alone, the pressure would be off Catherine and Anne for a while, and...and everyone would be glad I wasn't working anymore."

At that last, Victoria pulled away, holding Lydia by the shoulders at arm's length. "That isn't true," she said simply. Lydia looked disbelieving, but didn't reply. So Victoria went on, "Your father and I are happy as long as you're happy, and I know that it makes you very happy to work. You mustn't crumple at the first obstacle. You've not chosen an easy path for yourself, but I'm certain it's the right one, dear."

Lydia still didn't answer, and kept her gaze downward, a frown on her face. Finally, Victoria took her gently by the chin, waited until Lydia looked her in the eye, and then said, "I forbid you to give up, Lydia."

Firm and stern as she tried to keep her tone, she couldn't help smiling a little when Lydia visibly softened. A little glint even returned to her eye.

"All right, Mother. Thank you," she said. Then she grinned crookedly. "Grandmamma will be disappointed. I would have made her evening."

"Yes, well," Victoria said as she stood up, "Grandmamma will simply have to make do, won't she? I'm wearing a gown that's at least six years old, perhaps she'll find some enjoyment in criticizing my wardrobe."

Victoria was glad when Lydia chuckled, sounding and looking herself again. It was always unsettling, frightening, even, when Lydia was anything other than completely cool and completely in control of herself. Ruefully, Victoria realized her eldest had learned that self-mastery (and, honestly, self-repression) from her. It was all too easy to forget that she had feelings.

_And on top of all that,_ Victoria couldn't help thinking, _my little unit very nearly suffered a defection._ She'd never have thought it would be Lydia. At least it didn't take much to win her back. Making hasty, fundamentally life-altering decisions while under duress seemed to be a recurring issue with their family. Very unfortunate.

"We'll speak more later, dear, but right now we've a party to get through," she added just as the doorbell chimed. Where on earth were Victor and the other girls? Lydia nodded as she stood, straightening her dress. With the awkward, scrunched way she'd been sitting against Victoria, it seemed her gown had twisted round a bit. Aristocratic sangfroid she might have, but she lacked the ability to discreetly adjust clothing, evidenced by the way she quite un-selfconciously gripped her dress under her bustline and gave it a sideways tug to straighten it out.

"I'm not used to wearing this much extra dress, it gets all twisted," she explained, noticing the look Victoria was giving her. With a final tug, she appeared to have righted herself. And not a moment too soon, for just then Alice appeared in the parlor doorway.

"It's Mr. Weary, madam," she announced. "And Lord and Lady Everglot are coming up the drive." Before Victoria could reply, a distant car horn blared. Lydia leaned over to look out the window.

"Death Trap coming over the bridge," she reported, straightening up again.

"Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort will be arriving shortly, then," Alice put in, clearly not wanting to have her job taken away from her.

"Thank you, Alice," Victoria said. "Do show Mr. Weary in. And see what's keeping the rest of the family, will you?" Alice bobbed a brief little curtsy before stepping back out into the entry. Victoria took a deep breath. Here went absolutely nothing.

She was absolutely sure of that.


	12. Interlude in the Hallway

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Ten

"Ooh, what lovely timing," Catherine said, giving Anne's arm a squeeze and nodding her head toward the front door. "That must be your Mr. Weary."

The two of them had been heading down the hallway from Father's study towards the entry, arms linked, when the doorbell chimed. Anne had stopped stock-still so quickly that Catherine had been jerked backward a little.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Anne said, watching as Alice, looking very important, pulled open the door to reveal Ned. Oh, he was in a tuxedo. A _tuxedo_. He'd only worn a nice suit the last time he'd come to dinner. Oh she hoped he wouldn't see her, standing in the dim hallway next to the stairs, cowering like a rabbit who's had a sudden whiff of wolf.

"No, you're not," said Catherine with a small laugh. But Anne wasn't laughing. Nor was she able to move. All of a sudden, this all seemed so..._serious_. Too serious. She wasn't ready for this. She had thought she was, but...

"I can't," she whispered, taking a step backward and gently pulling her arm away from her sister. "Please make my excuses, I can't..." Catherine just stared at her, bewildered, as she took another step backward. Quite of their own accord her fingers began twisting together nervously.

This had been a bad idea, she shouldn't have told Lydia about what Ned had said to her last week. Or at least she shouldn't have let Lydia ask Ned over tonight. It was too much. She was going to go upstairs, put on her nightgown, and hide in her room, and then...just be Ned's penfriend. Yes, penfriend. Then Father would never have to be disappointed in her for going about with a man on the sly, Mother wouldn't figure out the exact reason why the blouse she'd lent Anne had come home with grass stains on it, and her grandmothers wouldn't take turns murdering her for taking up with someone beneath her.

And maybe...maybe she wasn't in love. Not that much in love. Not enough. If she were, surely she wouldn't be this terrified. She'd thought she was, but...Anne put her hands to her face.

"Of course you can, don't be such a goose!" Catherine took a step toward her. When Anne took a corresponding step back, she gave a gusty sigh and put her hands on her hips. She did look an awful lot like Grandmamma when she did that. As though thinking of her grandmother had somehow summoned her, a distant car horn suddenly sounded. "All of the guests are arriving, we need to receive them!" she added, sounding less amused and more impatient the longer Anne refused to move.

"Oh, too late!" Catherine huffed, turning back toward the entry to find Alice showing Ned into the parlor. Anne felt bad for upsetting her sister, and even worse for being such a ninny, but she couldn't help it. This was all too much. She needed to get Ned alone for a moment to tell him the plan was off, that they should wait until some other time. No, that was no good. With her parents _and _her grandparents around there was no way at all she'd be able to see him in private without arousing suspicion and ire.

From outside came the crunch of gravel and the faint sound of grumbled complaining as Grandmother and Grandfather got out of their carriage. Alice had left the front door open. Oops. Mother would have to remind her about shutting the door in between guests at smart parties.

"I'm sorry," Anne whispered. She really was. For nothing in particular at this point. For everything. What a mess she was in. _Oh, Ned_...

Sighing, Catherine took Anne by the elbows, and gave her a little shake. "You're being terribly silly, you know!" she told her affectionately. As she spoke she smoothed out and straightened the layer of lace that Anne had been twisting at all evening. "You're lovely, you're sweet, and, from what Lydia's told me, Ned Weary is absolutely mad for you." She laughed when Anne blushed and tried to demur.

"It's true! I'm sure I'll see for myself," insisted Catherine, now taking Anne's hands and squeezing them. Anne squeezed back, reassured, particularly when her sister added in a low tone, "It's clear _you're _mad for _him_, the way you moon about and fidget and drop things. It's quite sweet, really."

Anne nodded. She did love Ned, she did. "Mad for" wasn't a term she'd have used, not least because it wasn't really in her vocabulary. "Mad" seemed to imply a sort of passion she didn't really feel. Catherine was mad about gentlemen all the time. Anne was not. Was there something wrong with that? No, there couldn't be. After all, were Father and Mother mad for one another? They were happy, that was certain. Oh, this was all too confusing.

But she hadn't the time right now to think. Another blast of the Death Trap's horn sounded, closer now. Everyone would be here soon. She'd smile, be good, see how Ned seemed to fit in, make sure Father seemed to be in a good mood and that there wasn't anything sharp about, just in case, and all would be well. Maybe, just maybe, the plan would go forward without incident. Perhaps she was worrying too much.

Just when she'd collected herself enough to pat her hair again, take a breath, and decide she'd get scared and worry about the nature of her romance after dinner, Catherine said, "I'll have to test him out, and make sure this Mr. Weary is good enough for my little sister, won't I?"

"What?" Anne asked, feeling sick again, dropping Catherine's hands. Test him? What did that mean? Catherine just shrugged, then daintily lifted one of her strands of beads with one hand, toying with it a bit, smiling a strange little smile.

"Oh, you know, I want to learn more about him, about the two of you together," she said, her tone getting more giggly and excited the longer she spoke. No longer impatient or irritated, but flush with the possibilities of romance and matchmaking. Anne could only stare. "His interests, how he spends his time, his views—you know, to see how they square with yours! And I'll want to see how he looks at you. That is _very important, _Anne. I want to make sure he's fun and passionate and considerate and charming. I mean, I'd never want to see you trapped with someone boring and quiet who never wants to do anything grand. Someone like...well. A good match for you, is what I mean."

The _"someone like Father"_ part of her sister's last statement went unspoken, but it hung in the air between them. She'd said it before, after all, and it always rather offended Anne. "Boring" and quiet would suit her just fine. It was hard not to notice that Catherine always liked to list lots of attributes that _she _found attractive in men, and then just assumed that everyone else did, too. That her perfect match was everyone else's. It was her way.

"Lydia thinks he is," Anne put in when Catherine finally stopped to breathe.

"Lydia is only one opinion," Catherine sniffed, making it rather clear what she thought of the worth of said opinion. Anne looked at her feet as Catherine continued, "Really, what does she know about romances, anyway? It's not as if she's ever had a real one. Not one that really counted."

"Don't be mean," said Anne quietly, "Especially not about that." At least Catherine had the grace to blush and look down at the floor for a moment. Looking up, she took Anne's hand again.

"Forgive me, that was mean of me, I'm sorry I said it," she said, sounding as though she meant it. She looked Anne in the eye, her tone more serious than before. "I just want you to be happy, Anne, I truly do. I'm so glad you found someone on your own, and that you're not being paraded about and offered up to just about anyone by our grandparents. It's fun for a while, and all the parties are nice, but oh, it _does _get old."

As though on cue, Grandmother and Grandfather appeared in the doorway, both of them wearing the expressions of people who've got a bad smell under their noses. They usually wore it when they came to visit. Grandmother had once said their house smelled of the middle class. Anne had no idea what that smelled like. Must have been the furniture polish and Mother's lavender, that's all Anne could ever smell.

"What is this, some sort of open house?" Grandmother asked as she stepped into the entry, having to stoop just slightly so that the top of her hair didn't hit the transom. At her age she still had quite remarkable hair, almost impossibly so. Anne couldn't help but be impressed by Grandmother, imperious and bad-tempered as she might be. Maybe it had to do with that grand air she had about her. Grandfather, though, was less impressive, particularly when unarmed. He could be scary and gruff, but that wasn't quite the same thing. He stepped in as well, thumbs tucked under the lapels of his tuxedo jacket as he glanced around the entry.

"Don't they have a butler?" he asked in a gruff mutter. Then he gave a little sniff, pulled a face, and said, "Hmph. Fish again."

"I've never understood how Victoria could stand to live in a house where one can smell the cooking," Grandmother said. Anne and Catherine looked at each other. Grandmother and Grandfather Everglot were certainly wasting no time tonight. And this was just the two of them talking to one another.

_They're going to eat Ned alive_, Anne wailed inwardly, putting her palm to her forehead. Luckily Alice re-appeared to show them to the parlor just then, saving Anne from wondering how much longer she and Catherine could stand there without being noticed.

"Good evening, Lord and Lady Everglot," Alice said, only stammering a little. Grandmother and Grandfather shared one of their conspiratorial sideways looks.

"There you are at last," Grandmother said, nose in the air to better look down it at the servant. Poor Alice. At least she was getting off easy, for Grandmother did not say anything more. After bobbing a little curtsy, Alice made to lead them toward the parlor.

Catherine gave Anne a distracted sort of pat on the shoulder. "Everything will be lovely, you'll see," she said, then, quickly, with a clear desire to be off to the party, "You're all right? You can do this? Plan is on?"

Slowly, Anne nodded. "Plan is on," she said weakly, watching as Grandmother and Grandfather followed the maid into the parlor. After a brief smile and a quick thumbs-up, Catherine trotted down the hall to the entry. When she made it to the parlor door, she paused for a moment, made a little pose, and then walked in. Anne sighed, then followed her sister, her footsteps slow. Even the thought of time with Ned wasn't moving her along now. All she could be was nervous. There was going to be such a fuss. Anne hated fussing, especially when she was the cause.

She should be thrilled. Ned wanted to marry her. And she was, she was positively over the moon-the mere thought made her heart leap a little. But her romantic haze was wearing off, in more ways than one. She'd not realized the purpose of tonight's dinner. Admittedly she'd not been paying much attention. She'd been rather distracted by the fact that her young man was going to ask her parents for her hand.

_At least Grandmamma will get what she wants, _Anne thought as she came to the foot of the stairs, hands behind her back as she walked. _Just not in the way she expects._ Provided, of course, if everything went according to plan.


	13. Father and Mother of the Brides

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Eleven

The atmosphere in the parlor was tense. Well, Victoria was tense, at any rate. Usually she didn't mind silence, preferred it, even, but the silence that had settled over their little party was one full of import. The calm of a battlefield just before the first cannon goes off.

Victoria stood next to the piano, looking over the company. Maudeline had taken a seat in Victor's armchair after offering her a curt greeting ("Good evening, my dear. Are you aware your maid leaves the front door wide open?"). Finis stood in front of the fireplace, hands behind his back, his expression making it clear he was here under orders, and had at least a dozen places he'd rather be. This expression was deepening with every moment that William stood next to him, attempting to make conversation. After a bit William gave up, and settled for tapping his cane on the floor every now and again.

Nell, in fine form this evening, had swanned in wearing a dress remarkably and inappropriately similar to Catherine's, fan in full flutter. After a nod and greeting to Victoria ("Evening! So nice to see you're getting so many years' wear out of that lovely dress!"), she'd settled herself down in the second armchair, right next to Maudeline's. The two of them exchanged nods. Clearly, just like Victoria, the two of them had a plan for this evening. Once again Victoria felt the urge to cancel the whole dinner.

The girls sat in a row on the sofa, Catherine in the middle. Ned stood, looking ever so slightly nervous and out-of-place, next to Anne's end of the sofa. As far from Finis and William at the fireplace as he could get, Victoria noticed. Not that she blamed him.

Introductions were brief and did not take long. It was a family event, after all, so really the only one to introduce was Mr. Weary. Maudeline had raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips upon hearing that Mr. Weary not only was an accountant and employee, he had been invited by Lydia, but she'd not said anything. Probably saving it, Victoria supposed. _Small favors, and so forth, _she thought. After the pleasantries were completed, the weighty, who-will-blink-first silence had descended.

Victoria wasn't going to speak first, that was certain. Nor blink, for that matter. She was hostess, yes, but somehow she felt that breaking this particular silence could be construed as a defeat of some kind. Drawing first blood, perhaps, and thereby opening herself up to retaliation. Where could Victor be? She needed him here, they were supposed to be a united front. With a sigh and a glance at the clock, she decided she'd go after him herself if he'd not arrived within the next five minutes.

The seconds ticked by. Still, no one spoke. Nell tapped her fan against her knee. Finis cleared his throat. Mr. Weary looked up at the ceiling, and shifted slightly from foot to foot. Catherine and Lydia shared a sideways glance. William tapped his cane again.

It was so quiet that Victoria was certain she could hear strains of Mary's music from upstairs. Plainly she'd calmed down, as she'd switched to Beethoven. Or something similar, Victoria could never tell those composers apart. Hearing the music made her think of Victor again. Perhaps he'd deserted. Perhaps _he'd _decided to go listen to music with Mary for the rest of the night. Victoria sighed a quiet little sigh.

"So!" Mr. Weary said, making everyone jump. He grinned around the room, finally settling on Victoria. "This is a lovely party, thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Van Dort."

"You're quite welcome," Victoria replied, after taking a moment to recover. She couldn't help noticing that he was speaking just a trifle too quickly, smiling just a trifle too broadly. Not in a _bad _sort of way, exactly, but in some way she couldn't quite put a finger on. Finally, after tilting her head and regarding Mr. Weary for a moment, the way he stood just a little hunched in his clean but worn tuxedo, the way he kept looking around the room, it came to her. Add some tie-twisting and a bit of stuttering, and Mr. Weary would be Victor on that day they'd first met.

_How very strange, _Victoria thought. She also couldn't help noticing how often his gaze seemed to come to rest on Anne, nor could she help noticing how his expression changed when it did. It was subtle, but it was there. A picture was beginning to form in her mind, its outline blurry and unsure, with several pieces missing. But it was forming nonetheless. She pushed it to the back of her mind, she tried to focus on the conversation at hand.

"You've Lydia to thank for your invitation, though," Victoria added, glancing back and forth between them. Lydia, who, never one for much formality, been leaning her elbow on the armrest with her chin propped in her hand, seemed to snap to at hearing her name.

"Yes, I'm glad you could make it," Lydia said, giving him a nod.

"I'm sure you are!" William said, grinning at her and tapping the side of his nose. Everyone turned to stare at him. He shrugged, grinned that same grin, and added, "Asked him specially, didn't she?"

Lydia opened her mouth, then closed it again. Now everyone was staring at her. Except, Victoria noticed, for Anne and Ned, who were looking at one another. They looked worried. Victoria pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose briefly, closing her eyes. More pieces were falling into place, but at odd angles that didn't quite fit. When she opened her eyes she found Maudeline giving her a look of the sort she'd not given her since her teenage years. It was the narrow, beady gaze that said, _What is going on here, young lady? _

Victoria couldn't help but think it rather unfair that _she _was on the receiving end of that look. Her daughters were the ones who were clearly up to something. Before she could decide how to respond, Nell did it for her.

"William, don't be ridiculous," she said, a definite warning in her tone under the gloss of her company voice. Turning to Maudeline, she added, "He's being ridiculous, him and his silly ideas-"

"Oh, yes, silly indeed," said William with a chuckle. Then he winked at Lydia in knowing sort of way, nodding all too obviously at Ned, who looked at his feet. Lydia, looking as though she wasn't sure whether to laugh or hit someone, glanced helplessly around the room. Catherine, all too clearly trying not to laugh, gave her a nudge. When she got no response, she nudged Anne, instead. No response there, either, as Anne was clearly preoccupied with twisting the lace on her collar between nervous fingers. So Catherine shrugged, grinned at Ned, and then turned in her seat to beam at Victoria. Victoria could only offer a strained little smile in return. Clearly, Catherine found this much more entertaining than everyone else did.

"Don't know where I get these ideas from! Couldn't be what I see every day, no sir!" continued William, this time giving Finis a nudge with his elbow. Instead of returning the very all-lads-together gesture, Finis just grunted and straightened his lapels.

"Don't listen to a word he says!" said Nell to Maudeline, who was sitting with her arms crossed over her chest and a stonier-than-usual expression on her face.

"I haven't for over a quarter of a century," Maudeline replied, frowning. "I can't see the point in starting now."

After a pause, Nell gave an unsure little laugh, even as Maudeline continued to frown, her eyes on Lydia, who was covering her face with one hand. Victoria didn't like that frown. It was the frown her mother wore when she was thinking. That was always dangerous, in Victoria's experience.

"You and your foolishness, William!" Nell said, losing her company tones completely. She sat up straighter and crossed her arms over her chest in an eerie mirror of the way Maudeline was sitting. When they wanted to, they could, and did, act as quite a formidable unit. They shared a sideways look, and Nell added, "You know perfectly well we'd never allow it, and none of the girls would even consider such a thing! Imagine!"

"What thing? What've I missed?" Finis asked, stepping out of William's elbow range. He looked at Maudeline, and asked, "What are you all going on about?"

"Oh, Finis, do keep up!" Maudeline replied, waving her hand as though to dismiss his question. With a grumble and another lapel adjustment, Finis fell silent.

Anne made a quiet little noise from her corner of the sofa. So quiet that Victoria thought she must have been the only one to hear it, until she noticed Ned reach over and touch her shoulder briefly. The touch was quick as a blink, and he'd managed it unobtrusively, but he'd done it. Anne looked up at him, a small smile on her face. Victoria's eyes widened. _I hope I was the only one who saw that, _she thought, glancing quickly at her mother. Much to her relief, Maudeline appeared not to have noticed. Victoria closed her eyes again, just for a moment, then turned and ran her hand over the piano keys. A huge piece of her puzzle had just clicked into place, and the general picture was getting clearer.

She needed to speak to Victor. Immediately. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alice hanging about the entry, small dinner gong in hand, plainly eavesdropping. After catching the maid's slightly sheepish eye, Victoria signaled her to ring the gong.

"Ah, dinner is about to be served," Victoria said as the gong's tones rang and faded. "Lydia, dear, will you please go fetch your father?"

"Isn't that what the maid is for?" Finis asked in a grumble, shaking his head, even as Lydia nodded and stood.

"I'll go with you," Ned said suddenly. Lydia, already at the parlor door, looked back over her shoulder at him.

"I live here, I can find the study on my-" She stopped abruptly, then seemed to reconsider. With a shrug, she said, "All right, then. This way."

With an awkward little bow at the rest of them, and a long gaze with Anne that no one else but Victoria seemed to see, Ned followed Lydia out into the hall.

"You're going to let them out into the corridor _alone _together?" asked Maudeline, clearly scandalized. Much to Victoria's relief, her father-in-law came to her rescue.

"Ah, they're alone together all the time at work!" he said, offering Nell his arm to escort her to the dining room. She took it, but only after giving him a little swat with her fan that was clearly meant to translate to, _Shut up._

"Oh, so then it's _perfectly _acceptable," Maudeline replied bitingly as she and Finis made their way to the parlor door.

"No, not at _all_," Nell said sycophantically, as she and William followed Maudeline and Finis out into the hall toward the dining room. "As I was saying just the other day..."

Her voice faded as the four of them made their way across the hall. Victoria watched them enter the dining room, and then turned to Catherine and Anne, who were having a whispered conference on the sofa.

"Ladies," Victoria said mildly. Both of them stopped their whispering and looked over at her. "It's time for dinner." Catherine gave Anne a little squeeze on the arm, then stood.

"It's going well so far, isn't it, Mother?" Catherine said brightly as she passed Victoria on her way out. "I think we'll all have a wonderful time. And Mr. Weary seems very nice!" Victoria just gave her a half-smile.

"That's a lovely attitude to take," she said quietly, not sure if Catherine heard her, as she was already halfway to the dining room. Catherine was a nice girl to have around, that was certain. Her cheerfulness kept things in perspective.

Anne hadn't said a word. As she walked past, following her sister, Victoria gently caught her arm.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" she asked in a murmur. Anne immediately went pink, and cast her eyes to the floor. When she met her eyes again, she looked unsure.

"Mr. Weary?" Victoria elaborated, keeping her voice gentle. She and Anne stood eye-to-eye, looking closely at one another for a long moment. Anne nodded, slowly.

"Mr. Weary," she agreed, and then, seemingly despite herself, broke into the broadest smile Victoria had ever seen on her face. For her own part, Victoria couldn't quite work out how to feel. She was confused about how all of this had come about, she was proud and pleased that her daughter was in love, she was hurt that Anne hadn't shared anything. But most of all, she was worried about what Victor would say. Because she was certain that Victor didn't know. She most definitely have heard about it if Anne had confided in him. Briefly, Victoria put a hand to her daughter's cheek, feeling a rush of affection as she looked at how much Anne lit up at the very thought of Ned Weary.

Just for now, that was all that mattered. Everything else, the fuss, the worrying, the explanations, that could all wait. Her little girl was in love. It was plain. Victoria couldn't believe she'd missed it.

"Mother," Anne began, haltingly, some of the light leaving her face. "What are we going to...I mean..." Victoria reached out and gently stopped Anne's hand, which had been on its way to twist at the lace on her collar.

"We're going to have dinner," she said encouragingly. "And then...we'll see. Go, dear, I'll wait for everyone else."

Looking relieved and happy, Anne left for the dining room. Once she was alone, Victoria took a deep breath, and let out a loud, gusty sigh, slumping and burying her face in her hands.

0-0

_Oh dear, there's the dinner gong, _Victor thought, startled out of his thoughts. He was still sitting at his desk, staring into the middle distance, no more mentally prepared than he had been ten minutes ago. He looked at the clock and winced. He'd not meant to be so late.

Quickly he stood, smoothed down his hair, shook out his sleeves and straightened his bow tie. With a deep breath he squared his shoulders and made his way for the door.

_I am the man of the house, _he told himself as he walked. _I am a grown man, this is my dinner party, and what I say will be what goes._ He let his breath out in a sigh. He very nearly believed all that, this time.

He had his hand on the doorknob when voices from the hall stopped him. Oh dear, Victoria had sent reinforcements. Knob in mid-turn, Victor stopped to listen, just to try and gauge who the voices belonged to and how irritated they sounded, before he opened the door.

It was Lydia and Ned Weary, and they were arguing. Victor put his ear to the door.

"Look," came Lydia's voice, "just ask to talk to him."

"But your grandparents!" whispered Ned. "You didn't tell me they'd be here!"

"No matter what they'd like to believe, they're not the ones you have to talk to," Lydia hissed. "So ask if you can talk to my Father after dinner."

Victor pulled away from the door, thinking. _Why would Ned Weary want to talk to me?_

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea, not tonight," Ned murmured. "I'll wait, and-"

"Do you want to get married or not?" Lydia demanded in a whisper.

With a gasp, Victor let go of the doorknob as though it had suddenly sprouted spikes. _Married? _

"Of course," he heard Ned say. "But-"

"But nothing," Lydia said, at normal volume. "Let's fetch my father, shall we?"

If Ned responded, Victor didn't catch it. His mind was too busy reeling about. _Married? _He'd just spent two days worrying about how to convince his mother and mother-in-law that his daughters had no interest in getting married, and now here Lydia was, arranging one for herself?

This was...this was...mad. Utterly mad. Not least of all because, well...Ned and Lydia? His Lydia? All this time he'd been so worried about Catherine. He'd figured Lydia didn't even know what men were, except in the strictest academic sense. She'd never even mentioned wanting to marry, not even when she was small. Victor had always figured that that was something all young girls did—not Lydia, though. Did he really know so little about her?

And that wasn't the only thing that seemed, well, wrong with this. After all, he'd watched Lydia and Ned together at work all the time. True, she'd asked him for tea, and once for dinner, but all they'd talked about was work. And they had not, to his knowledge, been alone together. Of course, he knew from experience that it didn't take much time...

"Father?" Lydia called, knocking on the door. "Dinner is served." Victor didn't reply. He was too busy thinking.

Another thing. Victor might not have been the most perceptive man around, but he knew how young men talked to women they were in love with, and he hadn't ever heard it when Ned spoke to Lydia. He was pleasant and friendly, and joked with her often, but that certain something was missing. There was no bumbling, no stuttering. No hesitation or inability to quite meet her eye. Missing was that certain sense that, were this young woman to laugh at you or say she simply didn't feel the same way, she might as well rip your still-beating heart from your chest and then toss it disinterestedly over her shoulder into the dirt.

All right, maybe all of that had just been him. But in any event, it certainly didn't sound to him as though the two of them were madly in love with one another. Maybe there had been a mistake. Yes. That would most likely be it.

_Ned is probably leaving the cannery to get married,_ Victor decided, _and is giving two weeks notice. At a dinner party my daughter made it a point to invite him to. And young men always quit their jobs when they marry. Yes. Makes perfect sense. _With a soft groan, he let his forehead drop against the door with a dull thud.

"Father?" Lydia called again. "What was that? Are you all right in there?"

"Yes, just coming," Victor said, straightening up again. He had to speak to Victoria. Immediately. She would know what to do. And then she would tell the rest of them what to do, and they would do it, and everything would be fine.

No matter how many times he repeated that to himself, he still couldn't quite bring himself to believe that it would be true in this case.

He took another deep breath. _I am the man of the—oh, forget it, _he thought, and pulled open the door.

"Evening," said Victor, stepping out into the hall to join Ned and Lydia. Who, he was relieved to find, were standing a respectable distance from one another and seemed thoroughly composed.

"You look nice," he added to Lydia, who smiled and nodded her thanks. She so rarely dressed up he'd forgotten what she looked like when she did so. And, as ever, the mirror effect she created for him was utterly bizarre. Perhaps it wouldn't be so eerie if they weren't built so much alike. It was like seeing his younger self, but in a dress. Utterly bizarre.

"Hello, Mr. Weary," Victor said, turning to him. He stopped himself before adding, _Pleased you could come_, as he wasn't entirely sure that it was true now.

"Hello, sir," Ned replied. Then, abruptly, he thrust out his hand for Victor to shake. For a confused moment Victor just glanced from Ned to Ned's hand and back again. Slowly, figuring it was only polite, Victor shook Ned's hand. From the way she was twisting her mouth, it was clear Lydia was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Well then," Victor finally said, having to forcefully pull his hand out of Ned's grip, "Shall we?"

"Yes, I think so," Lydia replied, having composed herself. "Everyone's going to have fits if we're not there soon." With that she set off down the corridor, after a pointed look at Ned. Victor and Ned set off after her.

"Ah...um...Mr. Van Dort? Sir?" Ned said as they walked, "Might I speak with you after dinner?"

"It's not something that can wait until work tomorrow?" Victor asked in return, stalling for time. He needed to talk to Victoria about this. Surely Lydia would have said something to her. The two of them, after all, were much closer than he and Lydia were.

"Er...no," Ned replied, nearly apologetic, "No, sir." Victor looked at him sideways, then picked up his pace when he saw that Victoria was waiting outside the parlor door.

"No, I thought not," muttered Victor. He gave it a moment's thought. Then he turned to Ned. The young man was looking at him as though he were about to deliver a judgment. Which, in a way, he supposed he was.

"Yes, I'll see you," Victor said. One would have thought he'd just given Ned a fortune in gold and a brand-new motorcar, from the way his face lit up. This was power Victor wasn't used to having. He found he liked it.

"Thank you, sir!" breathed Ned as they came to the foot of the stairs. Ned headed for the dining room as Victor stepped to the other side of the entry to join Victoria at the parlor door. "Thank you!"

"I haven't done anything yet," Victor said under his breath as Ned disappeared into the dining room. Come to that, what was he _going _to do? Perhaps it wasn't too bad an idea, really, Lydia and Ned Weary. They were friends and workmates, and that seemed to be a rather stable foundation for a marriage. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he wanted his daughter to get married at all.

And on the _other _other hand, he wasn't ready for this. It was one thing when a stranger sent a form letter requesting an introduction, or when his mother invited them all to dinner with several chinless and slightly wall-eyed noblemen. It was entirely another for a young man to approach him, confess undying love for his daughter, and then ask to marry her. Even worse would be if his daughter agreed. How could he say no then?

Out of long nervous habit, Victor raised a hand to find his tie. While he found bow ties to be a touch unsatisfying to fiddle with, he made do, twisting it round and round, and then back the other way.


	14. The Dinner Party

Wedding Flowers-Chapter Twelve

Victor was at Victoria's side by the parlor door in a flash.

"Victoria!" he whispered urgently.

"Victor!" she whispered back in the same tone.

"I need to talk to you," they said in perfect unison.

There was a brief pause. For a moment they stood looking at one another. Victor rather felt the surprise on Victoria's face must mirror his own expression.

"About Mr. Weary," they said, again at once.

There was another pause. Victor scratched the back of his neck. Victoria took a quick glance across the entry to the dining room.

"So you know already," she said, turning to look up at him. Her tone was slow, cautious, as though she were tiptoeing, afraid to set him off. As though he were some sort of landmine. Which, he realized, was actually rather close to the truth when it came to the romantic lives of his daughters. Luckily when he went off the only casualty was his tie. With conscious effort he pulled his hand away from his collar, and put his arms behind his back. He looked down at Victoria, who was still studying him carefully.

"Did she say anything to you about all this?" Victoria asked, searching his face. "Did you know, before now?"

"No, she didn't tell me," he said, feeling silly for not having guessed. All of the signs were there, in retrospect. "I rather assumed she'd said something to you."

Victoria shook her head. "No, she didn't. But when I saw them tonight, in the parlor..." she trailed off, looking toward the dining room again. In the brief pause he studied her profile. Victoria's expression was strange. Wistful, unsure, somehow soft around the edges. As if she were wishing she had a tie to twist as she contemplated her many inner "other hands." Victor couldn't quite put a name to it. But he thought he understood the feeling. He put a hand to her waist.

"Mr. Weary asked to speak with me after dinner," he told her in an undertone. Victoria put a hand to hear mouth, covering a little gasp as she turned back to him again.

"You don't think?" she whispered, her eyes wide.

"I do think," he replied. They gazed at each other again, this time their expressions matching in parental agitation. After a moment Victoria's gaze moved down to Victor's mangled tie. Without a word she reached up and absently smoothed and straightened it for him.

Murmured conversation and the scraping of chairs against the floor came from the dining room. They couldn't stay out here much longer. How lucky that Catherine was such a good hostess—she could hold the fort, as it were, until Victoria arrived. Victor was in no rush to go in there, particularly given these new developments. The entire point of the evening had been to _avoid _an engagement.

But perhaps...perhaps this was different. This was Lydia deciding on her own. As she always did. Victoria had finished with his tie, but she was still running a hand over it. Absently, her mind plainly elsewhere. Most likely she was thinking along the same lines he was. With a small smile, he gave her waist a squeeze.

"I suppose it's not that surprising, really," he finally whispered, trying to soothe and reassure. And, honestly, trying to convince himself of the truth of his words. "After all, they've known each other for over a year, worked together, he's come to call on her...What? What's wrong?"

Victoria's eyes had gone even wider, her mouth falling open in surprise. She shook her head at him, her hand no longer stroking his tie but waving about in a clear _No, no, shut up _sort of way. So Victor shut up and just stared at her, bewildered. After a quick glance at the dining room door, she reached up and put her hands on his shoulders. Stepping closer, she looked up at him, and shook her head again.

"Victor," she said, quiet but urgent, "I think there's been some sort of misunderstanding."

"What do you mean?" he asked, confused. He'd thought what he'd heard had been rather clear. No real mystery in it at all. "What've I-"

"What in the world are you two doing out here?" boomed Maudeline's voice. The two of them turned to see her standing in the dining room doorway, regal in her severely cut purple silk, hands on hips, staring at them down the length of her nose. On instinct left over from young adulthood, Victor and Victoria took their hands off of one another and took a step apart.

"It is a full five minutes past eight, and your guests have had to seat themselves," Maudeline scolded. As she turned and went back into the dining room, she added, "Come at once!"

Here they were, forty-five years old, and still being scolded by Victoria's mother. Maudeline could make _anybody_ feel like they were nineteen.

"I need to speak with you before you speak to Mr. Weary," Victoria whispered quickly, already making her way toward the dining room. Victor nodded, still confused, and then followed her, taking a few long strides to catch up.

When Victor entered the dining room, he pulled the door shut behind him, the latch seeming to catch in a very final sort of way.

0—0

Lydia had never attended such a silent family dinner. For her family, that was saying something. From soup to fish no one had said a word. However, the atmosphere was positively crackling.

It was probably for the best that Lydia was sitting next to Ned, with Anne and Catherine across the table. Poor Anne was having a hard enough time keeping a grip on her silverware and cutlery with Ned across from her. If they'd been side by side, brushing elbows in front of everyone, she'd probably have fidgeted herself right off her chair.

Even Catherine was quiet, seemingly content to happily watch Anne and Ned make eyes at one another. Lydia had to admit it was sort of sweet. She'd been both pleased and embarrassed to see that Ned looked at Anne just the way that Father looked at Mother, when he thought nobody else was paying attention. Catherine, meeting Ned and seeing the two of them together for the first time, plainly found it adorable. And yet...Lydia couldn't help feeling a bit envious, and she thought she detected a glimmer of envy in Catherine's eyes, too, when their gazes happened to meet across the table.

There had been many eye conversations tonight, actually. They set Lydia on edge. She much preferred words. Clear-cut, unambiguous words. Worst of all was Father. Every time she looked in his direction she found him giving her the queerest look. Finally, the fourth time she noticed, she realized it was the same look he'd given her when she'd gone off to school for the very first time. He'd looked at her just that way, with a wistful kind of fondness, all the way to the train station. Having no idea what that was all about, she decided to just ignore him.

Finally, when Alice and the girl that Mother had hired just for the evening had cleared away the last plate and had disappeared through the door that led down to the kitchen, Grandmother straightened up in her seat. Taking her cue, Grandmamma did the same. A ripple seemed to go through the company, all around the table. Everybody, even Mother, either shifted a bit or sighed or squared their shoulders.

_Here it comes,_ Lydia found herself thinking, unsure of what "it" was, precisely. She noticed Father and Mother share a long look with each other from their opposite ends of the table. Somehow it seemed like some sort of psychic hand-holding when they did that. Lydia, discomfited by that thought for some reason she couldn't quite figure out, looked at her plate.

"Thank you for the dinner, Victoria," Grandmother said, steely and polite, with the definite sense that her politeness was mostly habit. She gave Ned a brief look. Ned, to his credit, didn't cower. "Do forgive us, Mr. Weasley-"

"Weary," Father corrected quietly.

"Whatever," said Grandmother with a wave of her hand, not bothering to spare Father a glance. "We have family business to discuss, I hope you don't mind."

"Er, no, not at all," Ned said, looking at Lydia for help. She could only shrug. Maybe it would've been good to warn him about this. In the excitement and nervousness of his impending engagement to her sister, Lydia'd forgotten to mention that the whole point of this dinner party was to agree on husbands for her and her sisters. Husbands who were emphatically not Ogdred Weary, Chartered Accountant.

"It's fine," Lydia said out of the corner of her mouth. And it would be, Lydia was sure. It always was. She was quite interested to see how it would play out tonight, on this scale. Besides, if Ned really wanted to join their family, this would doubtless be excellent practice. Here he was, looking at what would be the next fifteen years of his life, at least. Again, to his credit, he did not seem frightened.

"Indeed we have! Haven't we?" Grandmamma said, looking down the table at Mother, who met her gaze. Her face was completely impassive.

"Yes," she said evenly, putting her hands in her lap. "We have. Victor?" Father nodded, his expression giving away rather more than Mother's.

"Let's not fuss over this any longer," Grandmamma said. "It's high time we got these girls engaged. _Suitably _engaged," she added pointedly when Grandad opened his mouth to say something. Thus rebuked, Grandad closed his mouth again, but gave Lydia a wink and a nudge. Lydia rolled her eyes.

"Why the rush?" Grandfather asked, more to his glass of wine than the company. Grandmother turned to glare at him over Catherine and Anne's heads.

"Finis, what _are _you talking about?" she asked. Grandfather curled his lip a bit, and _harumphed _down at the table.

"Are we having some sort of financial difficulty I'm unaware of that would necessitate a wedding?" he asked in return. Grandmother just narrowed her eyes and looked down her nose at him.

"Not at all, business is smashing!" Grandad broke in, suddenly energetic now that talk had turned to a topic he knew about. "Defense contracts! We're feeding the entire military-"

"Thank you, William!" Grandmamma said, leaning forward to better glare at him past Ned and Lydia.

"Finis, we have discussed this," Grandmother sniffed. "The children must marry up. That is what we are arranging."

"Hmph. Well," Grandfather said. Then he shrugged, and mumbled mostly to himself, "just as long as the checks keep coming." And he took a swig from his wine glass, apparently satisfied.

"Oh yes, of course they will, no worries there," Grandmamma put in, with a flick of her wrist and a little laugh. Quick as a blink her manner changed, and she went on seriously, looking at Lydia and her sisters each in turn. "We're going to elevate every one of you. No trading sideways or down, girls."

Lydia couldn't help noticing how Grandmamma looked at her the longest, staring at her with a clear "if you know what's good for you..." glint in her eye. If she'd been within range, Lydia was sure she'd have gotten a jab in the side with Grandmamma's fan. Grandmamma also seemed to incline her head pointedly at Ned, but perhaps Lydia was imagining that. Inwardly she groaned. Grandad and his big mouth and silly ideas...

Quickly Lydia glanced around at her sisters and parents. As always, her grandparents had all simply taken off, commanding the dinner table as if it were theirs. As if Mother and Father weren't even necessary to the discussion. As if Lydia and her sisters weren't necessary to the discussion!

She glanced around the table again, trying to gauge how everyone was taking this, and how and when her parents were planning to put a stop to it. Catherine, unruffled and unconcerned, tipped Lydia a friendly wink when she caught her eye. Suddenly it occurred to Lydia that Catherine had been living with these conversations and negotiations for years, ever since her coming out party. It was what came of being the only one of the four of them who looked like a purebred, betraying no outward sign of Van Dort blood. Van Dort money, yes. Blood, no. If Catherine wasn't concerned, then Lydia probably shouldn't be, either. She looked at Anne, and was less reassured. Poor Anne looked as though she was about to throw up what little dinner she'd eaten. Lydia bit her lip, and looked over at Father.

Luckily Father happened to be looking at her again. When their eyes met, he gave her a small nod, clearly meant to be reassuring. Again, he was giving her that look, that affectionate and wistful little smile. Then he nodded again, his face hardening a bit, as though coming to a decision. He turned to Grandmamma.

"Mother, we have discussed this several times," he said. "We are not arranging marriages for the children, and that is final." After a brief pause, he added, "But...er, thank you for your concern."

"How, may I ask, do you intend to marry them off if you do not arrange it?" Grandmother asked, looking down her nose at Father. For a split second it seemed that Father was ready to give up, to waver, but the moment passed quickly. Lydia watched as Father sat up straighter, squared his shoulders, and tilted his head back so that he could look down his own nose at Grandmother. It didn't quite work, but the intent was clear. And Grandmother didn't look pleased.

"They'll marry when and if they choose," he told her, his voice level. Lydia looked at her sisters, wide-eyed, to find them looking back at her the same way. They'd never heard Father speak to Grandmother that way before.

"Yes, they will," Mother agreed quietly, sounding reflective. Lydia saw that Mother was wearing an expression very similar to the one Father had been giving her all evening. Only she was looking at Anne.

"Choose for themselves?" Grandmother asked, slowly. She sounded incredulous. "Young people can hardly be trusted with such decisions. Daughters are _informed _that they are engaged. It should come as a surprise."

"Certainly, Mother, you must appreciate that we'd like to properly know the gentlemen our daughters marry. And that we insist our daughters know them," said Mother, giving Grandmother a meaningful look. "Given past...events."

At that, everyone looked anywhere but at each other. Father especially seemed to lose a bit of his starch, his mouth turning down a bit, his eyes getting a sad cast to them as he looked at Mother down the table. But Mother wasn't looking at him this time. Mother remained as she was, her eyelids dropped low, a hint of steel in her gaze. As if daring Grandmother to come up with a response.

Lydia felt a familiar pit start to form in her stomach. She'd always found her parents' history to be an uncomfortable one, one that she didn't like to think about. It made her angry and sad to think about Mother's first marriage, about what had happened to her, and it shook her even more deeply to think about Father's—she stopped there, noticing that she was clenching her fist hard enough to feel her fingernails digging into her palm. Lydia relaxed her hand, let out the breath she hadn't noticed she'd been holding, and tried to focus on the conversation.

"Oh really, Victoria, how long are you going to hold that messy affair against us?" Grandfather finally asked, gruff and impatient, looking at her sideways. Mother's eyes widened, her mouth dropping open a little. And then, after a moment, it seemed she'd given up. She dropped her gaze, no steel in it now.

Seeing her looking that way seemed to galvanize Father, though. He narrowed his eyes at Grandfather, a dangerous expression on his face. Before he could speak, though, Ned broke in.

"I don't blame Mrs. Van Dort," he said quietly. "That was a very sad thing. It was...upsetting."

There was a pause. As one, the entire family turned slowly to stare at him. Ned spoke as if he knew. He seemed to realize that all eyes were on him, though, and he gave a little start in his chair. Plainly he hadn't quite meant to speak aloud.

"I...er...would imagine," Ned said lamely, going a little pink. He briefly glanced at Mother, head bowed. "Forgive me, Mrs. Van Dort, I...wasn't thinking."

Mother didn't immediately reply. She didn't look angry, quite. Merely confused. Actually, she was wearing the expression she usually ended up wearing at least once during get-togethers with the entire family. Head tilted a bit to one side, a slight frown, blinking slowly. That sort of bemused stare, as though she couldn't quite believe that all of these people had anything to do with her.

"Mr. Weary?" Father finally ventured, glancing between Ned and Mother, a look of pure puzzlement on his face. But Mother waved a hand, her expression once more impassive, inscrutable.

"Thank you, Mr. Weary," Mother said, without quite looking at him. There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The clock on the mantel ticked. The atmosphere was no longer crackling with expectation. Rather, it seemed to be thick with discomfort of varying degrees. Lydia sighed a little. She wanted to go to bed.

"Well!" Grandad suddenly said. He leaned forward a bit to better look at Ned, who was staring at his lap, still pink around the ears. "You certainly know how to bring a room down, Mr. Weary. It's last month's finance meeting all over again, isn't it?"

"That's all right, though," Grandad went on when no one replied. He even seemed unfazed by the fact that nobody seemed to be listening to him. "Since you're going to be a member of the family, I'm sure we can make a few allowances for you!"

_That _got everybody's attention. Every head snapped up, every pair of eyes focused on Grandad, who merely sat back in his chair, a small smile on his face.

"I _beg _your pardon?" Grandmother asked, her voice murderous. Anne was sitting with her knuckles to her mouth, wide-eyed. Luckily Grandmother was too focused on Grandad to notice.

"Mr. Weary," Grandad replied cheerfully. "He's been courting Lydia. And I daresay we'll be hearing some wedding bells soon enough!"

The silence was awesome. Horrified, Lydia turned to Ned, to find him looking just as horrified back at her. Catherine, transfixed, could only shrug, unable to help. Anne looked ready to burst into tears.

"What is the meaning of this?" Grandmother asked when she'd recovered. Lydia put a palm to her forehead, trying to think of a way to fix this. Ferociously thinking _Shut up Shut up Shut up_ in Grandad's direction wasn't working, so she needed a new plan.

"Oh, you know how it is," said Grandad, clearly having an inappropriate amount of fun. He waved a hand. "Working together, get to be friends, little meetings, passing notes-"

"Hmph," put in Grandfather, squinting at Ned. "Very unprofessional." Grandad shrugged.

"It's to be expected, when a young woman's around eligible bachelors all day," he said. Lydia's mouth dropped open as he added, "Just like the girls who come in to pack herring every season! Most of them seem to leave with husbands."

Herring packer? Looking for a husband? _Herring packer?_ That tore it. Lydia had only been embarrassed a moment ago. Now she was furious. Quite forgetting herself, she turned to Grandad and said, a bit more angrily than she meant to, "I'm not unprofessional, and I'm not seeing N—Mr. Weary." She looked around the table. Everyone just looked back at her.

"I'm not!" she insisted. "And Ned isn't _courting _me."

"Lydia," said Father gently. She looked up to see him giving her such a kind and understanding look that it made her want to scream. "We already know. It's all right."

"No, it's not!" Grandmamma cried, clearly unable to contain herself any longer. "It is most definitely _not _all right!" Whipping open her fan, she started fanning herself, one hand to her forehead.

"Don't get all a-flutter, dear," Grandad said mildly, even as Grandmamma continued to mutter to herself.

"Oh, I think we are all well past 'a-flutter,' Mr. Van Dort," said Grandmother icily. She turned to Lydia and Ned. _"Explain yourselves."_

Lydia heaved a sigh, trying her best to make sure it didn't come out as a growl. This was...this was...mad. Unbelievable. And it ended _now_. She should've known better than to get involved in all of this. She should have told Ned to call on her sister and court her respectably, like a normal person. No secrets, no sneaking. Couldn't _anything _related to marriage be normal and simple in their family?

"I did pass notes, and I did invite Mr. Weary over tonight," Lydia said slowly, "but it's not...I wasn't.. I was doing it for-" Lydia caught Anne's eye, and stopped abruptly. Her little sister's eyes were pleading.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't give Anne away, not like this. Poor Anne didn't have the constitution for it. With a sigh, thinking how very much Anne owed her for this, Lydia sat back in her chair.

"I confess," she said flatly, tossing her hands in the air, looking around the table. "Mr. Weary and I. Courting. All of it."

Catherine's mouth was hanging open most unbecomingly as she stared at Lydia. Anne was also staring, but her gaze was plainly one of thanks. Ned, who had been tensed up as though ready to make his escape through the window if necessary, began to relax.

"But, Lydia," Mother began. She'd been completely quiet until now. When their eyes met Lydia concentrated hard, trying to will Mother to figure out what was going on. Something must have clicked, because Mother gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Sitting back, Mother folded her hands in her lap and was quiet, eyes cast down. Lydia, rightly or wrongly, took that as permission to keep going.

"He asked me to marry him," Lydia announced. She had to raise her voice over her grandparents' groans and general protests as she went on, "He proposed, and...I'm saying no."

During the pause that followed Lydia tried to gauge reactions. It was hard to tell. Everyone seemed more confused and surprised that anything else. Grandmamma had even stopped in mid-fan, and Grandfather was paused with his nearly empty wine glass halfway to his mouth. Anne was relaxing more with each moment, it seemed, which was good. So Lydia turned to Ned.

"I'm sorry I led you on, Mr. Weary," she said, trying to ignore the way that Catherine was attempting to stifle her laughter with her dinner napkin. "But I just can't marry you." With that, Lydia folded her arms over her chest, leaned back, and waited for the next move. She'd done all that she could.

"Uh..." Ned said. He looked around the table, helpless and confused. Nobody would look at him except for Father, who just gave him a shrug that seemed to say, _Sorry, but what can you do?_. So Ned turned back to Lydia and managed, "Er...that's...all right. I understand. Thank you for your, uh, candor."

"You're welcome," Lydia replied flatly, not looking at him.

"You could've let him down a bit more easily than that!" Catherine finally said, clearly recovered from her giggling fit. Lydia glared at her, but she just smiled sweetly in return, adding, "Poor Mr. Weary! I apologize for my sister."

Well, Lydia couldn't _really _blame her for having some fun at her expense. This whole situation was ridiculous, something out of a bad farce. Catherine always did love farces. So Lydia just shook her head as Ned replied, "Um, thank you."

"Well then," said Father, clearly bemused. He too sat back in his chair. "I suppose that's settled." And yet he seemed troubled, evidenced by the way he lifted a hand and began gently twisting at his bow tie.

"Not quite," said Grandmother. Father stopped his tie-twisting and looked at her warily. Grandmamma, who had recovered enough to put her fan away again, nodded.

"Oh, but that was a close call!" she remarked, patting her hair. "It's a good thing our Lydia's smart enough to know when to say no!" She looked at Ned out of the corner of her eye, and added in a low tone, "Though you should've known better than to chase after an heiress."

Across the table Anne gave a little groan, and Catherine patted her on the arm before leaning over to whisper something to her. Whatever it was made Anne nod, and smile just a little. Again, Lydia just shook her head, crossing her arms more tightly over her chest.

"Ahem," Grandfather said. He was looking at his watch, and when he spoke next it was more to the timepiece than to any of them. "Can we get on with this, please?" he asked, making a hurry-up gesture. Next to him, Mother was still impassive, looking at the tabletop. It was the look Mother wore when she was thinking. Lydia hoped whatever plan Mother came up with to fix things was better than her own.

"We'll not be having any more close calls, nor will we be allowing any further _courtships_," Grandmother said, pronouncing "courtship" has though it were a dirty word. She also levelled a meaningful stare at Lydia. Lydia, not feeling at her most respectful, stared right back until Grandmother looked away again.

"We've husbands picked out for all four of them," Grandmother announced. With an imperious glance at Ned, she added, "Not one of them an _accountant._"

So saying, she pulled a creamy white piece of paper, folded into thirds, out of some hidden pocket of her dress. Ceremoniously, she opened it. Even from her seat, Lydia could see the Everglot crest at the top of the paper.

"Four excellent prospects," Grandmother continued, waving the paper a bit. "All arranged. You may thank us for our hard work at any time." This last was directed down the table at Mother, who was now paying full attention. Her eyes, large and apprehensive, followed the paper's movement before moving to Father, who was also staring at the list with narrowed eyes.

"All you need to do is say yes!" said Grandmamma, tapping Father on the arm with her folded fan. She either didn't notice or chose to ignore that Father's frown was getting deeper by the second, as she happily continued, "We can start planning the first wedding tomorrow, and have at least one them taken care of by summertime!"

Lydia looked at Father. His face was dangerous, his eyebrows lowered so much they were making a straight line.

"May I see that list?" he asked, still looking Grandmother straight in the eye. For a second she seemed unsure, and looked across the table at Grandmamma. Finally she handed it over. Everyone watched, breathless.

Father looked at it for a moment. He held it up, as though to better catch the light, and then tore it cleanly in two. Then, his expression unchanging, he crumpled the pieces into a ball in one fist. He turned slightly in his chair, and with one neat flick of his wrist pitched it toward the fireplace, where it bounced off the grate and onto the hearth. Everyone gasped.

"Victor!" Grandmamma cried, shocked. Father didn't reply, merely turned back to the table, a very satisfied kind of expression on his face. Grandmother didn't say anything, but she seemed genuinely taken aback. Lydia was also rather certain there was a grudging bit of respect in her expression, too.

"Victoria!" Grandmother said, looking down the table. All Mother did was shrug a little, barely giving Grandmother a glance. She too had been staring at Father, wide-eyed. Clearly she was very, very impressed. So was Lydia, come to that. He did care about them. All of them. It was nice to be reminded. She looked over at Catherine, who also seemed to be looking at Father in a newly respectful way.

Mother did not reply. She merely stood, and everyone followed suit. Dinner was over.

"Thank you all for coming," Mother said, her voice even and polite, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Do let me ring the maid to see you out."

"No need," Grandmother said, her voice icy. She swept over to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out, Grandfather following in her wake.

"We're not through with this!" Grandmamma said, not to be deterred. Mother ignored her, and instead went over to the bell pull to summon Alice. Father just put his hands behind his back, gazing into the fireplace.

"Yes we are, dear," Grandad told her. "Let's have the car brought round, shall we? Night, all!" he added over his shoulder on the way out. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled the door closed behind him, closing out Grandmamma's continued complaints.

Lydia stood behind her chair, holding onto its carved back as though it would anchor her. Watching as Ned skirted around the table to join Anne, and as Mother went over to join Father at the head of the table, Lydia wondered if she'd handled that the right way.

_Herring packer, indeed, _ she thought again with a snort.


	15. A Fatherly Chat

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Thirteen

_I can't believe I did that, _Victor thought. Standing next to his chair at the head of the table, legs still a bit shaky with anger and adrenaline, he kept his gaze on the fireplace as his parents and in-laws stalked out of the room. He'd be made to pay for that little stunt, he was sure. He was unsure when or precisely how, but he was certain his mother and his mother-in-law would want payback.

Not that he regretted what he'd done. Quite the opposite. His children were worth it.

Scanning the hearth, he saw that the crumpled list wasn't there. He was sure he'd seen it bounce off of the grate. Perhaps he'd been mistaken. Had he managed to get it into the fire? Victor found himself a bit disappointed—he was rather curious to see who had agreed to marry his daughters. Mostly so he would know who to icily avoid at future social functions, and whose correspondence to immediately toss in the bin. With a shrug, he decided the loss of the list was probably for the best.

Victoria came over to join him, twining her arm around his, standing close. What must she think? He'd been rather rude, after all. Though as he recalled the look on her face when Finis had so casually dismissed both her and what she had gone through, a fresh surge of emotion made Victor sure that he'd be just as rude again, if given a second chance. Somehow he felt that by keeping their grandmothers at bay, he was making sure he'd never have to see that look on any of his daughters' faces. That sadness, that defeat, that pain. He could never bear seeing any of them look that way.

"Victoria," he began, turning to look down at her. He stopped. What could he say? Especially with the children in the room? Then he saw that Victoria was smiling. Unsure, he gave a slight smile in return.

"Victor," she said, pressing her cheek briefly against his arm, "that was _wonderful_."

"Was it, really?" he asked cautiously, searching her eyes. She nodded.

"You were extraordinary," she told him. He felt the shakiness begin to ebb, replaced by a flow of warmth. In twenty-six years, she'd never called him extraordinary before. His smile broadened.

"I've been thinking that it was a bit...rash," he admitted, mostly because he thought he should say so, rather than out of actual remorse or second thoughts.

"No!" Catherine said, positively beaming as she took his other arm. "Well, yes, it was, but still, it was amazing! I thought Grandmamma was going to faint!" she added with a laugh. Victor allowed himself a small chuckle. Mostly out of relief, as he'd assumed Catherine would be irritated at him for tearing up the list before she'd had a look.

"You were great," Lydia put in, a small smile briefly breaking through her rather stormy expression. High praise, coming from his oldest daughter, who, he felt, had not entirely approved of him since she was about thirteen. So he basked a little extra in the glow of her compliment. Both she and Catherine seemed, dare he say it, _impressed, _which was nice. Novel, too, and perhaps a trifle melancholy—somewhere along the line his daughters had stopped being impressed by him simply because he was their father. He'd had to try to earn it, not always successfully.

Only Anne said nothing, merely made eye contact and offered a smile. She'd been so quiet all through dinner, so...not herself, somehow. Probably all of the confrontation. Anne always was the rather delicate one, after all. So her smile was more than enough for him. There was pure affection and gratitude in that smile. Affectionately he smiled back at her.

Outside, the Death Trap peeled away down the drive, headlights sweeping across the dining room walls through the window. As the engine noises became more distant, they were replaced by the sound of gravel crunching under hooves and wheels as the Everglots' carriage departed. They were alone again, just he and Victoria and the children, secure. Their little unit safe and unassailable.

_Tearing up paper isn't exactly as impressive as dueling armed only with a fork, _he thought, putting an arm around Victoria's shoulders. _But the spirit was certainly the same._

Victor's warm, paternal mood was killed when Ned cleared his throat. In all the fuss he'd forgotten the young man was still there. But there he was indeed, standing now at Anne's shoulder. A trifle too close, it seemed to Victor, but perhaps he was imagining things.

"Mr. Van Dort?" Ned ventured, going so far as to raise a hand halfway, as though requesting to be called on. Everyone looked at him. Catherine let go of Victor's arm, and stepped over to stand next to Anne. Who, he couldn't help noticing, kept glancing over her shoulder up at Ned. From underneath her eyelashes, her mouth just barely turning up at the corners. Victor gave a little start—that was just the way Victoria looked at him, when she was being sweet and affectionate. Clearly he was imagining things.

Clearly.

"Yes?" he replied carefully, pulling his gaze away from Anne and meeting Ned's eye. What could Ned possibly have to say now? Lydia had made it pretty clear that she was not interested any longer. Her "no" had been clearly spoken.

"May I speak with you? As we discussed?" asked Ned, looking impossibly hopeful. Victor took a look at Lydia, who had moved to the doorway. Arms crossed over her chest, she was leaning against the doorframe, slouched, a frown on her face. Not a particularly ladylike pose. Lydia only had so many social graces to offer, and it appeared she had reached her quota for the evening. With a pang Victor realized he was being unfair—she'd just rejected a marriage proposal, after all. Of course she was in a mood.

Yet...she seemed strangely unbothered. She was annoyed, yes, but one would imagine she'd be a bit more heartbroken than this. Or at least remorseful. _Something _beyond annoyance. Victor looked at her, and couldn't help shaking his head. He had been with her all of her life, had raised her, and still he felt he didn't really know her at all. There was something he just did not understand about her, something important, and the realization pained him.

Well, he'd promised Ned, and Victor never liked to go back on his word. Besides, he was also Ned's boss, more or less, as well as Lydia's. It would be wise to smooth things over. The poor fellow had just been cut dead in front of his boss, his boss's family, and local gentry, after all. At Victor's table. So it was Victor's responsibility in more ways than one to at least have a man to man chat with him. To apologize for Lydia's coldness, if nothing else.

Victor had never in his life had a man-to-man chat. He was woefully unprepared. Yet he was still riding the wave of confidence that had come from the relative success of his unplanned Symbolically-Destroy-All-Suitors-for-His-Daughters'-Hands Offensive. Victor couldn't imagine how things could get any worse.

"Would you all excuse us, please?" Victor said, taking his arm from Victoria's shoulders. In a quick movement she caught his hand on its way down, and held it between both of hers.

"May I speak with you first? As I asked earlier?" she murmured, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she looked up at him.

"I think it's best I talk to Mr. Weary," he told her gently. "Don't you?" After all, Victoria had witnessed the same scene he had. What more was there to talk about? The top priority, to Victor, seemed to be getting Ned to understand that his courtship had ended, however unceremoniously, and that it would be best to leave Lydia alone in future. But Victoria maintained her grip on his hand, her gaze getting ever so slightly harder.

She squeezed his hand again, more tightly this time. "Victor," she said, firm and insistent, "I must speak with you. There's something you don't-"

For a moment Victor waited for her to continue. When it became clear that an end to her sentence was not forthcoming, he saw that she wasn't looking at him any longer. Following her gaze, he found that it led to Anne. Anne, who had the queerest expression on her face. Fear? Uncertainty? Victor couldn't tell.

Something was going on here. After a quarter of a century as the only man in his household, Victor had developed a keen sense for recognizing when he was missing something. Right now, he was missing something. What, though, he couldn't begin to guess. Or, suggested some tiny voice in the back of his mind, he didn't want to guess.

Before he had much more time to reflect, Victoria let go of his hand. She shared one more look with Anne, then turned back to him.

"Very well," she said, looking up at him. Her look was clearly meaningful, and he stared back at her, deeply, trying to figure out what the meaning was. Finally Victoria turned and headed for the door.

"Come, girls," she said, holding the door open for them. The children filed past her into the entryway, Anne last. It seemed to Victor that Anne looked at Ned Weary for a suspiciously long time before her gaze moved to him. All Victor could do was look back at her, uncertain. He'd never seen that sort of expression on her face before. He was left to wonder about it as Victoria left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

Now that the women were gone, the atmosphere was awkward. Victor had no brandy or cigars to offer. Which he felt bad about—maybe, given the circumstances, a drink would boost Ned's spirits a bit. As it was, the two of them stood uncomfortably in front of the fireplace, listening to the crackle of the fire.

"I'm sorry," Victor said at last. "That it didn't work out. I'm sure I don't know precisely why, but..." he trailed off with a shrug.

"Um, but Mr. Van Dort," Ned said, wearing that somewhat twitchy look he sometimes got at board meetings when his numbers for the month weren't very good, "I think there's been a mistake. There _has _been a mistake."

Victor considered him, and then put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "I know it feels that way," he said as kindly has he could, "But my daughter has clearly changed her mind. I'm afraid you must respect that."

Ned opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, and said feebly, "But Lydia isn't...I would never...I mean, she's lovely, but-" Victor nodded.

"She can be a bit curt, and changeable," he agreed. "I know." For a moment he just regarded Mr. Weary, who was clearly befuddled, a frown on his face. He wasn't a bad young man, not at all. A little on the old side for Lydia, really, but not too terribly old. Especially since there weren't any men his daughters' age anywhere nearby. He'd always viewed that fact as a blessing, really.

No, there wasn't anything wrong with Ned Weary. He'd courted respectably, as far as Victor could tell, without any funny business, he'd waited a respectable amount of time, he'd even been willing to ask Victor's permission. And yet, Lydia had still said no. Her reasons were her own. Victor felt he'd made it rather clear tonight that he wasn't going to force his daughters to marry someone just because they'd expressed an interest.

"Look," Victor said kindly, unsure of where to go from here, "Why not take tomorrow off from work?" After all, Victor knew how it felt to have the love of one's life abandon one. Or, more accurately, to _believe _that she had. Either way, it wasn't a good feeling, and it wouldn't be very kind to expect poor Mr. Weary to work right alongside Lydia after suffering such a blow.

"Thank you, Mr. Van Dort, but that's really not necessary," Ned replied, holding up his hands. "Really, sir, I have to tell you-"

"That's a very good attitude, Mr. Weary," interrupted Victor, nodding his approval. The young man was bouncing back already. Pulling deep back into his memory, he recalled the only advice about being rejected by a woman he'd ever received. He figured now was as good a time as any to share it. Giving Ned another fatherly look, he said, "At times like these, it's sometimes best to simply pick up the pieces and move on."

Poor Ned was clearly still in shock, his expression a bewildered one. He'd make do, Victor was sure. Deep down Victor couldn't help feeling relieved that this whole dilemma had been solved so neatly. Lydia wasn't upset, or at least didn't seem to be, and neither did Ned. One of those flimsy little romances, it seemed. Probably best it didn't result in marriage. Suddenly it occurred to him that this is probably precisely what Victoria had wanted to tell him—that Lydia had changed her mind, and that the match simply was not a good idea.

Victor felt rather proud of himself for figuring this one out on his own. He gave Ned one last awkward clap on the shoulder before beginning to steer him out of the room. Ned offered no protest.

What an evening. At least now every string was tied up neatly, and their lives could go back to normal.

Victor ignored that tiny back-of-the-mind voice that tried to tell him otherwise.


	16. A Motherly Chat

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Fourteen

Out in the entryway, Victoria and the children were in a cluster at the closed dining room door, attempting to listen in on what was happening.

"I can't hear anything!" whispered Catherine.

"Neither can I," whispered Lydia.

"Because you're talking," whispered Victoria, pressing her ear harder against the door. "Hush, girls."

Even in silence, it was impossible to hear through the door. Oh, Victoria _knew _she should have stayed in the room. What a sorry mess this was, and it was bound to get messier, one way or another. She shouldn't be huddled out in the hall as though she was one of the children. She should be in there, explaining, clarifying. And, of course, she wanted to know the details. As Mother, she felt it was rather a right.

"Should...should we really be eavesdropping?" Anne asked in a thin whisper. She was hanging back a bit from the rest of them, looking nervous and unsure.

Without missing a beat, Victoria, Catherine, and Lydia replied as one, "Yes."

When the door opened, the three of them only just had time to take a few steps backward and try to look nonchalant before Victor and Ned stepped into the entry. As soon as she saw their faces, Victoria knew that their conversation hadn't gone the way she'd hoped that it would. Ned clearly had not explained himself properly, had not admitted that Anne was the one he was courting. Ned looked far too troubled, and, frankly, Victor didn't look troubled enough.

_Oh, dear, _she thought, stepping out of the way as Victor steered Ned toward the front door. This was nonsense, and it had to end. It would be messy, and awkward, but messy and awkward truth was better than confusion and lies. Once again she was struck by the thought that her daughter had fallen in love, and that a young man clearly cared for her. And again that maternal sort of warmth and affection flooded through her, making her believe, rightly or wrongly, that Anne's happiness would outweigh the inevitable fuss. They would all move past it. Victor and Victoria would move past it. It wasn't as though the two of them hadn't moved past rather more serious relationship obstacles than this, after all.

Victoria took a step forward, holding out a hand, opening her mouth to tell Victor and Ned to stop, to wait. But just as she moved, Anne slipped her hand into hers. Surprised, Victoria looked over at her. Anne gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head, her eyes large and nervous, clearly begging Victoria not to say anything.

For a moment Victoria was tempted to pretend she didn't understand, to pull away and go about doing what she felt she must in order to fix all of this. But as soon as she looked into her daughter's eyes she knew she couldn't do that to her. She couldn't expose her that way, so unceremoniously. Not after that dinner. As disloyal as it made Victoria feel to think it, the fact remained that Anne was simply not as tough as her other girls. Sensitive matters like this needed to be handled delicately, quietly, with her.

Besides, now it was too late. Victor had opened the front door and was shaking hands with Ned.

"Good night, Mr. Weary," Victor said, quite pointedly, it seemed to Victoria. Poor Ned glanced around at them, his gaze lingering on Anne. There was an apology in that gaze.

"Good night," he finally replied. "Er...thank you. Again."

"It was lovely to meet you!" offered Catherine, taking one last valiant stab at good cheer. Ned nodded to her, and then at the rest of them. Despite his being at least a decade older than her children, Victoria thought that he looked so boyish, so unsure. And so familiar, somehow. She'd not noticed it the few other times she'd met him, but since his very unexpected supportive comment at dinner, Victoria had begun to wonder. In any case, looking at him just then, she was taken with the oddest urge to go wrap him in a maternal hug, as she would a worried six-year-old.

"Good night," he repeated as he stepped outside onto the porch, Victor offering one last small wave before he swung the door closed. Anne squeezed Victoria's fingers before letting go of her hand. In the brief silence that followed, the sounds of Mr. Reed bringing up Ned's horse and trap could plainly be heard.

Moving as one, Victoria and the girls closed in around Victor, who had turned to face them. His expression changed to one of alarm. Victoria imagined it must be a touch unnerving for him when she and the children moved as a pack. Yet it _did _get and keep his attention when they did it. Particularly at present, as he was backed up against the front door, nowhere to go, hands held up in a palms-out gesture of surrender, eyes wide as his gaze darted back and forth between them all.

"Well?" Victoria finally asked, when his eyes came to rest on hers. Relaxing a little, he gave a small shrug.

"I think he understands," he told her. "I told him to take tomorrow off from work." As Victoria blinked once, slowly, trying to figure out precisely how to continue this conversation, Lydia broke in.

"But we need him tomorrow!" she said, her tone teetering on the edge of outraged. "He's a department head, and he has to be at the—why are you looking at me like that?"

Indeed, Victor was eyeing her strangely. "It would be kind to give him some time to recover, don't you think?" he asked. Lydia, clearly brought up short, just stared for a moment.

"Of course, yes," she mumbled. Victor nodded, then put a hand on her arm. He made as if to say something, but then changed his mind, merely giving her elbow a pat before taking his hand away again.

"Did...did he say anything else?" asked Catherine, clearly unable to help herself. Victor just looked at her for a moment.

"Not really, no," he replied, just a little too breezily. Immediately Victoria was suspicious. Victor knew more than he was letting on, perhaps even to himself. Now curiosity was getting the better of her.

"But Victor," Victoria began, trying to decide how to frame her question, "what did he-"

"I think...I think I'll go sit in the parlor for a while," he interrupted her gently. Offering a small smile that didn't reach his eyes or the rest of his face, he moved past them without quite looking at any of them, and disappeared into the parlor. Clearly, Victor was troubled. He only shut down this way when he was very bothered. At least they'd received a few parting words. Usually he just left the room.

Since he didn't close the parlor door behind him, they all heard the telltale creak of the piano bench as he sat down. Soon after came the clunk of the fallboard, and then, softly, a melody. Lydia was the one to break the tense silence.

"That's it? That's all?" she asked, sounding flabbergasted and not a little annoyed. "We're not going to talk about this? About what just happened?" Victoria glanced up at her. What more did she want? By all appearances, Lydia had already done quite enough tonight. Certainly she'd done enough talking.

Thinking over the events of this evening suddenly made Victoria very tired. Wrung out. Her reserves were running low. She could only focus on one little drama at a time, and Anne's seemed most in need of attention just now.

"No, dear, not just now," Victoria said firmly. Lydia looked down at her, clearly wanting to say more, but apparently unsure of what. Luckily Catherine stepped over and took Lydia by the elbow.

"I think we've had all the excitement we can handle for tonight," she said as she pulled Lydia toward the staircase. "Mustn't overdo."

"But-" Lydia began, cut off when she stumbled over the hem of her dress as Catherine pulled her up the first few stairs to the landing. Catherine gave her elbow a tug, looking up at her with a hard and serious look. It was an expression that didn't quite suit Catherine's face, somehow, but all the same Lydia kept quiet, seeming to understand.

Victoria studied them, standing there together on the landing. Her two oldest, in looks an Everglot and a Van Dort, nothing shared between them. Her girls. Her little conspirators, plainly. As ever, looking at them, Victoria felt her lack of sisters and female friends keenly, as she realized that Catherine and Lydia knew much, much more about what Anne had been up to than she did. And most likely ever would.

"Good night, Anne, Mother," said Lydia, shaking off Catherine and heading upstairs. Catherine followed her, after one brief look back at them.

Anne made a move to follow them, but Victoria held her back. Taking a step forward and lowering her voice so that Victor wouldn't hear, she said, "Oh, Anne." Then she stopped. She didn't know what else to say. What was there to be said? Before she could decide, Anne spoke.

"I'm sorry, Mother," she said softly, her eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything about...about N-Mr. Weary and I, truly I am. Please don't be angry with me."

"I'm not," Victoria replied slowly. _I should be, _she thought to herself, _but I'm not. _No, if she was honest, she was rather proud. Anne plainly had some fire in her after all.

Victoria had often worried over Anne's quiet nature, about how she was so retiring. Catherine flirted and entertained, Lydia was forging herself a career, Mary felt the freedom to completely do away with the filter between her brain and her mouth. They were all such passionate young ladies. Victoria had tried her best to nurture this in all of them, to walk that line between freedom and protection. And yet Anne had always seemed to be naturally repressed, somehow. What had always been imposed upon Victoria seemed to come naturally to Anne.

And yet. Here was that same quiet Anne, having a romance on the sly. A serious romance. Victoria had always been so focused on defending her children from Nell's and her mother's ferocious matchmaking that she'd ignored the possibility that her daughters might just find matches on their own. She had neglected her rear guard, and had been outflanked. Soundly.

Her primary objective, and Victor's, had always been to protect the children from opportunists, from men out for their money or family name, from marriages made for financial or dynastic reasons. Victoria felt another rush of pride and affection as she recalled how Victor had torn up that list. She was truly proud of him, and glad that he'd done it. She probably would have done just the same. For that list was precisely what they wanted to keep their daughters from—loveless matches made for duty's sake.

Victoria had always wanted her children to have what she and Victor had together. And it seemed now that Anne had found it. Not in quite the way that Victoria might have imagined, but all the same, she had. No, Victoria wasn't angry. She was proud.

Instead of trying to articulate all this, Victoria simply pulled Anne into an embrace, and told her again, "I'm not angry." Hesitantly at first, then seeming to relax a bit, Anne returned the hug, pressing her cheek against Victoria's.

"I love him, Mother," she said, and Victoria could almost hear her blush. "I truly do."

Victoria didn't feel the need to answer, beyond holding her a bit more tightly. She knew. She'd seen. She'd seen Ned Weary, too. So she sighed, knowing there was only one thing to do.

"Anne," Victoria said, pulling out of the hug and holding her by the shoulders, "Go talk to your father." Immediately she felt Anne tense up, her eyes nervous.

"I don't know what to say," she said in a whisper, more to the floor than Victoria. "He'll be angry with me, I know he will."

"Not...angry, I don't think," replied Victoria slowly. But even as she said it she knew what her daughter meant. Victor wouldn't be angry, not as some fathers would, but he would be disappointed. Disappointed, his trust shaken. Somehow that was worse than anger.

"You've not done anything wrong," Victoria continued after a moment, hoping that that was true. "Go talk to him, dear. I'll come with you, if you like."

Anne finally met her eyes. There was a look of determination there, of a will that Victoria wasn't used to seeing. It pleased her to see it there now, just as the non-Mother part of her was pleased by Anne's courtship. In many ways, in most ways, Anne was her father's daughter. She had a reserve and a timidity that her sisters did not. Perhaps Anne was like her father in this, as well—she'd find her backbone and turn it to steel when she needed to, not a moment sooner or later.

"No, thank you," she said, her voice more firm and sure than Victoria had ever heard it. "I'll go."

Victoria nodded, only a little disappointed. She rather wanted to hear this conversation. At the same time, though, she understood why Anne wanted to do this herself. And truly, Anne _should _do this herself.

"Good luck," she murmured, touching Anne's cheek. "Everything will be fine, I promise." Anne took a deep breath that only shuddered a little, smoothed back her hair, and then made her way toward the parlor doorway.

For a moment she paused, as though listening to the music. Victor was playing a mournful and soft sort of tune. Fitting for the circumstances, Victoria rather thought. There was something bittersweet about it. It matched her own feelings, at any rate, watching her quiet, shy little girl turn into a determined, purposeful young woman in the space of an evening. Anne stepped into the parlor.

"You rang, madam?" came Alice's voice from behind her. Victoria jumped, sure her heart had skipped a couple of beats. She turned to see the maid standing there, her cap askew and her eyes tired. She'd also forgotten to roll the sleeves of her dress uniform back down before leaving the kitchen.

"Yes," Victoria finally replied, unable to keep from adding to herself, _Fifteen minutes ago. _ Immediately she felt guilty for even thinking it. Alice worked very hard, and had been doing much more than required tonight, even with hired help, being everything from a lady's maid to a scullery maid. So she gave Alice a smile.

"Thank you for your hard work this evening, Alice," she said sincerely. And truly, she was sincere. Alice had been working for them for...goodness, at least ten years. Alice looked deferentially down at her feet, but Victoria could tell she was pleased.

"Is that all, madam?" ventured Alice. Actually, Victoria had originally rung for her to see the guests out, and that particular moment had passed. And, actually, Victoria could use some help undressing, but she found she didn't want to ask that of Alice just now.

"Yes, thank you," she replied, deciding she could undress on her own. With a nod, Alice left, presumably to continue with her duties. Victoria decided to increase her wages just a little for this week.

Alone again, Victoria strained to hear what was happening in the parlor. The music had stopped. Voices weren't being raised, but then, this was Victor and Anne. And she shouldn't eavesdrop on them. But oh, she dearly wanted to. To better avoid temptation, Victoria decided to head upstairs.

As she climbed the staircase, one hand holding the train of her dress and the other trailing along the banister, she was thinking. Her little girl, getting married. Ned Weary wanted to marry her little girl. One part of her felt a delicious vicarious thrill—young romance, promise, the opportunity to give her daughter a completely happy and beautiful wedding. The other part, the Mother part, was worried. Despite how pleasant Ned Weary was, despite his long standing at the cannery and his history in the community, and despite how she just _knew _he was a good sort, the Mother part of her was concerned. What exactly had this "romance" of theirs entailed? What if Ned was simply very good at pretending...?

Victoria shook her head, once, hard. No. She'd be able to tell. And so would Anne. Victoria was always wishing that Victor would trust Catherine, who had only ever danced and written letters—she'd never met with a young man in private, as it was clear that Anne and Ned had done. That thought made Victoria go cold. She'd not considered that. What would Victor think about _that _side of things? He panicked over Catherine letting men kiss her hand. Who knew what Anne and Ned had-?

Victoria shook her head again. No. Anne wouldn't do anything..._untoward_. She had to give her daughter the benefit of the doubt, to trust her. And to trust Ned Weary. He didn't seem the type to take advantage.

Going into her bedroom, she left the door ajar so that she'd hear when Victor or Anne came upstairs. The other girls had plainly all gone to their own rooms, and presumably to bed. She couldn't hear any music or conversation, though a light was visible under Mary's door.

Still deep in thought, she sat down at her vanity, looking at her reflection. A thoughtful, solemn-looking woman looked back at her. Slowly she began taking her hair down.

Anne and Victor were so close. She'd always been Victor's favorite, ever since she was small. Even when she was an infant, nearly brand-new, she and Victor had bonded in a way that he hadn't with the other children. Victoria could only hope that bond would help Victor understand, that he would trust her and be happy for her. He would. He would surely be surprised, surely a bit upset, but once he thought it over, and once Anne explained herself, Victor would come around. They understood one another, after all. Besides, he also liked Ned Weary, he'd said so more than once. And he'd seemed just fine with the idea of Lydia marrying him, so he couldn't have that many objections to Ned personally.

All the same, Victoria found herself thankful that Victor didn't own a musket.


	17. Phlox and the Oak Tree

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Fifteen

Anne stepped into the parlor as quietly as she could. Father had his back to her as he played. It was a soft, nearly mournful tune. It wasn't one she recognized, though something about it seemed familiar.

Putting her hands behind her back, Anne crept over to the piano. Unable to speak, not wanting to disturb him, not wanting to disturb their entire life, she just stood there at his shoulder. If he didn't notice her soon, she could just leave. Go upstairs, go to bed, and think up a new plan tomorrow. Perhaps get Mother's help, take her up on her offer of assistance and support. And then she'd have time to talk to Ned again, as well. To remind her why this was so important, why Ogdred Weary was so very much worth all of this trouble. Somehow Anne felt that she was forgetting, the longer she stood, silent, noticing how thin Father's hair was getting on the back of his head. It made him seem somehow fragile.

She couldn't do it. Not just now. Not with this music, with the weight of the evening's events...Just when she'd decided to creep out of the room again, Father looked up and noticed her there.

"Oh!" he said, jumping just a little, his tune cut off mid-chord. "I didn't hear you come in. Here," he added, shifting over a bit and patting the piano bench next to him.

"I'm sorry I startled you," she said softly, taking the offered seat as Father resumed his playing. Anne told herself she was perching far away from him so as not to be in the way of his hands on the keys. Luckily he didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he gave no indication.

"Not at all," he replied, glancing over at her briefly. The smile he gave her was, as a few minutes ago, one that didn't quite light up his face. He was clearly troubled. That made two of them.

The piece he was playing slowed a bit, became softer. For some strange reason, it nearly made Anne want to cry. Or perhaps it was just the circumstances. After one final, somber chord, the tune finished. But Father let his hands rest on the keys for a moment afterward. The silence was heavy.

Anne found herself gazing at the bud vase on the piano. Mother always liked to keep some sort of fresh flower on the piano. In all her life Anne couldn't ever remember seeing that little vase empty. Today it held a little bunch of pink phlox. So pretty and cheerful, so spring-like. While these blooms came from Mother's garden, there were large patches of phlox in the wood, near the little river, where she and Ned had met so often over the past few weeks. One day about a week ago he'd put some in her hair, tucking it behind her ear, the back of his hand lightly brushing her face...A curious mix of guilt and affection made her stomach flip over.

Ned. Their secret meetings. Their love letters. Had she honestly thought there was nothing wrong with keeping all this a secret? That secrecy would perhaps be best for Father's sake, given how he worried so? Had she really found it so romantic, daring? Could she truly have believed the two of them could have approached Father tonight and announced that they wanted to marry, and that everything would be just fine? That Father would react the way Mother had? It was all so improbable, so impossible...

"That was quite the party, wasn't it?" Father remarked, sounding just a bit awkward. Absently he plunked out a few seemingly random notes. Each one seemed to cut right through her.

"Yes," Anne breathed, feeling as though she might be sick. Swallowing hard, she brushed the piano keys with one hand. Father had always wanted to teach her how to play. She'd never been interested in learning. None of them had. Now she felt a fresh guilt over it. Father cleared his throat quietly, running his hand over the keys, too.

"Nothing to worry about," he tried again, softly playing a scale, as though desperate for something to do. "That list, I mean. Your mother and I meant what we said, I promise. No arranged m-m-marriages. You can marry...well, I mean...what I said at dinner."

Something was odd about his tone. Slowly Anne turned to look up at him, only to find that he was looking at her out of the corner of his eye. When he noticed her looking he averted his gaze.

_He knows, _some little voice in the back of her mind said. Unlike the one that sounded oddly like Catherine and urged her to do flighty daring things, this one was calm and quiet. And sure. It sounded more like Anne, herself. _Somehow, he's realized, even if he doesn't know it._ Anne swallowed again. If only she could be sure, and rely on their affinity for this one, and not have to say anything aloud. If only...

"Strange, wasn't it, Lydia and Mr. Weary?" Father remarked in that same strange way. As though he were fishing. Awkwardly. He was also taking that sneaky sort of sideways look at her again. Anne frowned, thinking, as he continued, "It was unkind of her to cast him off in front of everyone. And Mr. Weary was...Well, neither of them seemed bothered, did they? Strange." Father's shrug, though small, was theatrical. Anne bent forward, burying her face in her hands.

"Are you all right?" Father asked. When she peeked at him from between her fingers, she found that he'd turned fully toward her. Dropping her hands to her lap, she met his look.

"Father," Anne began. "Father, I—I-" Immediately she faltered. Where were the words she needed?

"Yes?" Father prompted, his expression growing worried. The moment she saw that worried, searching look in his eyes, something seemed to crack inside of her. She couldn't keep this secret any more, she couldn't let Lydia lie for her, she couldn't let Mother speak for her, she certainly couldn't continue to keep Father in the dark.

"I've been keeping...that is, I've not been entirely...oh, Father," she said, unable to look him in the eye any longer. Why, oh why had she done this, why hadn't she been honest from the start? She couldn't even explain it to herself, how could she possibly explain it to Father? And why, why had she believed her sisters, who thought this would be easy, that she could simply explain herself and all would be well?

For them, it might have been. Not for her.

"Yes? What is it?" Father prompted again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Anne steeled herself as much as she could, looked Father right in the eye, and said in a rush, "Ned Weary's been courting me, not Lydia. I'm the one he proposed to. We'd like to get married."

As soon as the words had left her mouth she wished she could somehow snatch them from the air and cram them back in. Since that was impossible, she settled for putting a hand to her lips. Father's mouth fell open, and he stared at her as though she'd just kicked a puppy into a thorny rosebush. Or, perhaps, kicked _him _into a thorny rosebush. He certainly looked wounded and surprised enough. So much so that Anne had to look away from him, her gaze falling again on the phlox. The pink blossoms seemed to be mocking her.

"What?" Father finally managed to ask, sounding strangled. It seemed to be all he could come up with. When she dared a glance back at him, she found his eyes asking her about a million other questions, ones that he either couldn't or wouldn't find words for.

"He and I have been seeing each other," Anne said, trying to ignore the way her hands had begun to shake. "And we've decided we'd like to get engaged."

"But—how could-" Father stammered, the corner of his lip twitching just the slightest bit as he continued to gape at her, "I—You never—Mr. Weary and—what—when did—how?" There he finished lamely, seeming to have run out of steam.

Anne twisted her hands together in her lap. She'd reduced poor Father to complete incoherence. It was better than the other possible reactions she'd thought about, though. He'd not fainted. Or shouted. Though the conversation was still young...

"How?" he asked again, sounding a bit calmer. But now there was a hard kind of edge to his voice that made her nervous. Carefully she weighed what to say.

How, indeed? Where to begin? When Ned had come for dinner, and their eyes seemed always to find each other's? How she'd been filled with a curious warmth each time they did? Or perhaps at the end of that same evening, when he'd taken her hand to say goodbye, and her entire arm had been set to tingling, making her gasp? How she'd not wanted to let go of him? How she'd sent a note to him with Lydia, thanking him for coming over, and how that note had turned into many letters, which had turned into meetings and walks?

None of that seemed appropriate to tell Father. He most likely did not want to hear anything of that sort. Anne took a breath, trying to decide on a Father-friendly edited version of her courtship.

"Well," she began, "remember when he came to dinner last month?" Father nodded slowly, so she went on, "We met then, remember? And...we liked each other. Well...I liked him."

When Father didn't respond, she glanced over, just to see how he was taking this. Not entirely well, it appeared. He looked a bit dazed, staring at the little vase of flowers, shoulders slumped, almost unmoving. But still, she could tell he was listening, and took his silence for permission to continue.

In all honesty, the more she spoke about Ned the easier the words came. Even to her own ears her tone became a bit dreamy. It was hard to help. "He liked me, too. So we sent letters back and forth. We wrote every day..." She paused for a moment, thinking of the thick stack of treasured letters that she kept tied in a bundle in a little box under her bed. In particular she was thinking of the one that first hinted at a meeting, that spoke of how dearly he wanted to see her again...Anne put a hand to her throat, feeling warm all over, unable to keep a little grin off of her face.

Father wasn't grinning. "Go on," he said, sparing her a brief, inscrutable look. The warm feeling disappeared as swiftly as it had come as Anne willed herself to focus.

"Well," she said, serious again, "then we began to go for walks. In the wood. Not far, and not for very long. Mostly we'd meet out next to the graveyard, by that old oak tree-"

The words were hardly out of her mouth when Father took a sharp breath. Wondering, she looked over at him. Father had stiffened noticeably, as though frozen, his gaze seemingly on the phlox in the bud vase. However, his expression suggested that he wasn't really seeing them—rather, he was gazing inward, on something unpleasant. What had she said...? Hesitant, confused, she reached out lightly to touch his arm.

She'd only just brushed him with her fingertips when he stood, his expression unchanging, so abruptly that she started backward a little. The way he was frowning made her go cold way down deep in the pit of her stomach. Without looking at her he made his way over to the window, shaking his head as he went. Anne watched him walk away from her, keenly aware that something between them had shifted, had changed. Had broken. And there was no going back, no repairing it.

At that thought, the back of Anne's throat grew tight, a pricking at the corners of her eyes threatening tears. With difficulty she swallowed, vaguely aware that she was twisting at the lace on her skirt again. Father just stood, his back to her, hands folded behind him. So completely still. Anne wished he would say something. Anything. The silence was more than she could bear.

"Father?" she ventured, her voice breaking a little. He didn't respond, didn't even look at her. Closing her eyes against those pricking tears again, she took a breath, hoping to steady herself. She felt so torn up inside, unsure of how long this divided self of hers could stand. She knew it couldn't, not for long.

And what was worse, what made her cringe with guilt, was that she wasn't sure where her loyalties stood any longer. Her family, her father, or Ned? It was all too much. Her throat was getting all tight again. She didn't want to think about it. She'd done enough damage for one evening.

Not daring to try to say anything more, she stood up and began making her way toward the parlor door, resolved not to start crying in earnest until she was safely in her bedroom.

"Wait," came Father's voice from behind her.

Anne hesitated, twisting her fingers together. Then she turned around.


	18. A Father and Daughter Chat

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Sixteen

_Next to the graveyard, by the old oak tree..._

Up until then, Victor had been all right. Well, not entirely. He'd been a whole mess of things—upset, confused, worried, surprised, and even, yes, a little hurt, among them—but more or less he'd been all right, had been relatively certain that he could keep his worry in check. He could stand learning that his little girl had fallen in love. Even be, in his heart of hearts, thrilled for her. He could stand, just barely, hearing that she'd been keeping up a lively secret correspondence. So another of his children had a romantic streak. Fine. All that he could handle.

What he could not stand, what he could not handle, was hearing that she'd been meeting a man alone, unchaperoned. He especially could not stand to hear _where _they had been meeting.

_...by the old oak tree..._

The line from that long-ago song had immediately leapt into his mind. Something in him seemed to crack. Mere surprise had turned to cold shock, and upset had turned to a sort of horror that made his heart crawl all the way up into his mouth. And anger. Yes, if he was honest. Up until this moment he wouldn't have thought it possible, but he was angry with Anne.

It was the anger that made him stand up, feeling that he had to get away from her. Just for a moment, just to collect himself. Though even as he turned his back and walked away, he felt guilty about it. How could he turn his back on his own daughter?

Then again...how could she turn her back on him?

As he stared out the window, not really seeing anything, he attempted to calm himself, to stop his pulse from slamming so, to stop that panic rising. It was proving difficult. This was too much all at once. His little girl had been keeping secrets, she'd been meeting a man _alone_, she'd already accepted a marriage proposal...

And that Ned Weary. Coming to his house, appearing so respectful, so unassuming, so polite. Not twenty minutes ago he'd been thinking what a respectable young man Ned Weary was. How he might not make such a bad son-in-law. What a laugh. Respectable young men made their intentions known. Respectable young men came calling, were chaperoned. Respectable young men did not lure young ladies into the woods for secret meetings.

As soon as that thought entered his mind, dragging along with it the word "tryst" with all of its horrible implications, Victor wanted nothing more than to strangle Ned Weary with his bare hands. Disturbingly, his fingers were fairly itching to do so. Victor clenched his hands together behind his back until the moment passed.

Only when he heard Anne take a wavering breath, clearly trying not to cry, did he turn just slightly to look over his shoulder. Anne was heading for the parlor door, one hand to her mouth to keep her tears at bay. Seeing that, he cracked, unable to keep up his bad feelings.

"Wait," Victor said, turning fully from the window so that he could look at her. Slowly she turned around to face him, her eyes, so exactly like Victoria's, large and sad. Anne looked so young. So impossibly young.

Much too young for what she'd just confided to him. But he couldn't just let her leave. Couldn't leave it that way. So he sat down on the window seat and gestured for Anne to join him. Looking uncertain, cautious, she did so. And then they just sat, side by side, a strange and uncomfortable new distance between them.

Stealing a glance at her profile, Victor noticed that the wispy little curls around her face were beginning to go limp, easing back into their natural state. Her hair was just like his, straight and heavy. But her face. Her face was Victoria's, so exactly. So it was doubly hard for him to see her frown that way, to look so lost and upset.

Victor looked away again, realizing that it wasn't only Victoria's face that Anne had inherited. Anne clearly had her mother's strength, too. And, he thought with a hint of disapproval, her mother's willfulness. He did not allow himself to dwell too long on the fact that Anne's apparent sneaky and secretive streak mirrored his own.

"I'm sorry, Father, for all of this," she said quickly, a little hitch in her voice. "I was wrong, keeping this a secret."

Victor didn't reply. He couldn't. She was right, in that she'd been wrong. But it wouldn't be very nice to say so. When he didn't answer, Anne took a breath, sounding dangerously near tears.

"You're angry. You hate me," she said, her face crumpling. She seemed about to say more, but instead she put both hands over her mouth and looked at him with watery eyes. "Please don't hate me."

"What?" he asked, genuinely taken aback at her uncharacteristically dramatic words. "I'd never. I couldn't ever hate you." At that, she seemed to calm a bit, nodding and taking a brief swipe at her eyes.

"You're...you're not angry?" she asked, looking at him again with those enormous eyes of hers. Faced with those eyes, that look, he had to glance away.

"No," he said after a moment. Even as he told her so he felt it to be true. The anger had passed, but it had left a cold sort of feeling behind. A feeling of change, of something being fundamentally different between the two of them. It shook him. But of course he kept all that to himself, and merely repeated, "I'm not angry with you. I just...well, you know-" He broke off with a sigh, slumping forward a bit.

"But why didn't you tell me?" he asked, flinching inwardly at how hurt he sounded, even to his own ears. He should be in control here. And yet...he _was _hurt. Anne always told him everything, always trusted him, always come to him. It hurt to know that she hadn't with something this important.

He watched her carefully as she gave a jerky sort of shrug, twisting her fingers together, and looked down at her lap. He waited. After a moment, she met his eyes again, and said, "I didn't think you'd approve."

_You were right,_ he thought, but did not say. Several arguments were swirling in his brain, each clamoring to be given voice. _You hardly know him...He's too old for you..He's too poor..._But each one seemed to die before it could reach his mouth. He was Father, he was fully within his rights to say no. But somehow he couldn't. Particularly when yet another familiar old lyric drifted across his mind.

_When her daddy said no..._Victor took a deep breath, that one line with all of its implications and associations seeming to echo in his head. He couldn't say no. Not only because of what it might possibly drive Anne to do. Rather, because he could see how very much in love she was. And, as much as he didn't like to think about it, he had to admit that he'd seen the same thing with Ned.

This was different. This was entirely different. Ned Weary, though clearly possessing faulty judgment, was not some sort of cad, nor was he a mysterious stranger. And Anne was smart, she was strong, she was...

She was her mother's daughter. The thought made his expression grow fond as he looked at her. She was smiling a little, her earlier shame and guilt clearly forgotten as she said, "And more than that, it...well, it happened so very quickly. It was exciting. Oh, we talked about so many things. It was so romantic."

There was that tone again, the one that she'd been using when she'd talked about writing letters to Ned. Dreamy, romantic. The one he'd never heard before. Not even from Catherine, who constantly regaled them with tales of gentlemen friends. This was a serious tone, not a flirtatious or superficial one. One that indicated real affection, a connection, an intimacy. Victor knew it when he heard it. Not in small part because that was how he spoke of and to Victoria. And how she spoke to him.

"Your mother knows," he said, turning toward her. It wasn't really a question. As he replayed the evening's events, his conversation with Victoria in the hall before dinner, he was positively kicking himself for not picking up on all of this more quickly. At the same time, how could he _possibly _have guessed what Anne had been up to? How on earth had Victoria guessed?

"She figured it out," agreed Anne, her voice small again, some of the guilt creeping back in. Mentally Victor kicked himself again. Of course Victoria had. She had Mother powers that were beyond his capacity. And she'd tried to tell him, he realized that now. Oh, so many pieces falling into place...

"Everyone knew but me, didn't they?" he asked, going for deadpan but ending up closer to resigned and slightly offended. He looked at her sideways to find her quick to shake her head.

"No," she said immediately. Seeing his look, she colored slightly. "Well, yes," she amended. "But only Lydia, really. Catherine and Mary didn't know until tonight. And they really don't know all the details. You're the only one I've told, really. All the details." She said this last with an oddly hopeful air, as though he were to take being the only one to know _"all the details"_ as some sort of consolation prize.

But he only nodded, resolved to talk to Lydia in the morning. She clearly knew quite a bit, despite what Anne had just said. The two of them were a bit overdue for a chat. At that thought, he sighed, and they were both quiet for a moment.

"So then," Victor said at length. "Ned Weary would like to marry you." Still wrapping his mind around the concept, he was finding it hard not to belabor the obvious.

"Yes," she breathed, and there it was again, that happiness that lit up her entire face. There was really no point in asking whether she agreed. Even to Victor, it was fairly obvious now. She made it explicit by saying, "He said...he said it was as though he's known me for years. And that he wants to be with me always. That he never wants to be without me."

And he'd thought her earlier tone had been full of longing and breathy romance. Anne even had both hands to her chest as she gazed into the middle distance. Reliving the occasion, clearly. She was clearly head over heels for this young man, and he for her. What odd ways history had of repeating itself. Obviously he'd spent twenty years worrying over the _wrong _history repeating itself.

"That's...nice," he told her. Judging by her smile, Anne seemed to understand what he meant. That he approved. That he understood. A very companionable, more familiar silence settled over them. And that uncomfortable new distance, while still present, didn't seem nearly as unbridgeable.

"I thought something seemed strange about the idea of Lydia and Mr. Weary," he admitted after a moment. They shared a small sideways smile.

"Let's talk about this tomorrow," Victor finally said, suddenly very tired. He rubbed his forehead. With difficulty, and not a few reservations, he added, "We'll invite Mr. Weary to tea. Your mother and I will talk to him. And then...well...we'll...talk. All right?"

Anne's face lit up in a way that Victor hadn't ever seen before. Just the way Ned's had earlier in the evening. As though she'd just been given the world. She was radiant with it, with pure joy. His little girl, his little Anne, was in love. Again he felt that wistfulness that he'd been directing at Lydia all through dinner, but increased a thousandfold. It was painful, but a sweet sort of pain.

However, the pain he felt when Anne accidentally cracked her forehead against his chin as she hurled herself into his arms was not sweet at all. It was just painful. For a second he thought a few lower teeth were going to rattle loose. He rubbed his chin as Anne wrapped her arms around his middle.

"Sorry," Anne whispered into his tuxedo jacket, her forehead pressed against his shoulder. She did not sound pained. Most likely her joy had made her impervious to pain. He wished the same could have been said for him as his chin continued to throb.

"That's all right," he told her, returning the embrace. He held her close, even pressed his cheek to her hair for a moment. Victor couldn't remember the last time he'd hugged her like this. Nor any of the other children, for that matter. It had been a very long time. Sitting there on the windowseat, his arms full of ecstatically happy daughter, it was easy to pretend that she was nine years old again. That the biggest problem she had was knotted sewing or a broken magnifying glass.

_What else could I do? _he asked himself, giving Anne's back a pat. Almost immediately he answered himself: _Nothing at all._ Most likely he'd have done no differently if the evening had gone according to Anne and Ned's plan, if they'd approached him together. Oh, he'd have been just as surprised, just as hurt and annoyed, but he was rather sure they would have ended up just like this, he and Anne. They always did. Somehow he was glad Ned Weary wasn't here for this. It just wouldn't have been the same.

For now, Anne's happiness and their unspoken forgiveness and understanding were all that mattered. All of the other explanations, the family discussions, the inevitable confrontations with his parents and in-laws, all of that could wait.

Victor hugged his daughter a little more tightly.


	19. Yes

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Seventeen

The house was quiet. Anne, still aglow, had drifted off upstairs to bed. Victor was more than ready to do the same. Somehow he was sure Victoria was waiting for him. So much to talk about...so much to plan. His tired brain, out of lifelong habit, was trying to worry and be pessimistic as he went about turning down the lamps and checking the burned-down fires. But somehow it simply didn't take.

Another old, nearly-forgotten song had risen to the surface of his mind, a bittersweet kind of remembrance. _We're going to have a wedding!...Our hopes and our pride...our lovely bride..._

His Anne was going to be a bride. A happy one. One with a future ahead of her. No darkness, no danger, no death. Pure life and promise.

Victor was aware that he had little smile on his face as he bolted the front door. He was feeling sweetly nostalgic. And had the oddest urge to go wrap his arms around Victoria. As he headed for the stairs, he decided he'd go do just that. Perhaps even before he changed into his nightclothes.

He was halfway up the staircase and already loosening his tie when a commotion outside stopped him. It sounded like hooves and wheels on the gravel of the drive. He turned, frowning. _What in the world...?_

By the time Victor reached the foot of the stairs, the knocking began. Just once, at first, and then a few more times quickly when the door wasn't immediately answered.

Wondering, slightly hesitant, Victor made his way over to the front door. A shape was evident through the glass pane. Squinting into the darkness outside, he tried to make out who the shape might belong to. From the way whoever was out on the porch was moving back and forth, it seemed that they were trying to do the same from the other side. When the doorbell chimed, Victor jumped.

_For heaven's sake, they'll wake the whole house! _he thought, annoyed. And yes, he heard footsteps and opening doors from upstairs. Clearly everyone was coming to investigate. So much for quietly heading upstairs to join Victoria, and ending the tumultuous evening on a sweet note. With a sigh, Victor threw the bolt back and pulled open the door.

Ned Weary stood on the porch, his hair a bit mussed.

For a moment the two of them simply stared at one another, blinking slowly. Victor was torn. Should he invite him in? Ask what his intentions were toward his daughter? Order him home? Inquire as to what, exactly, was the matter with him, ringing the doorbell at this hour? In the end, he decided to settle for good manners.

"Hello," Victor said pleasantly, folding his hands behind his back.

"Hello again, sir. Terribly sorry for ringing the doorbell," Ned said quickly, attempting to smooth his hair. "I wasn't thinking. I just hoped you'd still be up. I know it's late, and I don't want to disturb you, but, sir-"

"Your horse is getting away," Victor interrupted him, pointing. Ned turned to look. They both watched as the horse, clearly ready to make an end of the evening itself, made its way toward the carriage house, dragging the trap along behind it. The windows above the carriage house were dark. The Reeds were plainly asleep.

"Oh," said Ned, sounding lost. Then he turned back to Victor. "She's just going back to the stable, it looks like. She's a smart horse, she remembers where it is. She likes your groom, I think, too." There was a bit of a laugh in his voice by the time he was done talking, and he gave Victor a wary sort of smile. The smile widened when Victor returned it.

"Mr. Reed is good with animals," Victor agreed. As one, they nodded. An awkward silence settled over them. In order to delay looking at each other, they both watched the horse park herself by the carriage house, seemingly content to nibble at what little grass she could find near the edge of the drive.

"Sir," said Ned, more serious as he looked to Victor. "I'm sorry, again, for bothering you. But I got halfway home and knew I had to come back. I know it's late, but I simply can't leave things the way we did. Please, may I speak to you?"

Inwardly Victor sighed as he looked Ned up and down. This young man was just too friendly, too kind and ingenuous. Despite whatever might have gone on between him and Anne, there was just no way Victor could stay indignant toward such a person. Besides, he already knew what Ned was going to say. It was his own lines that he wasn't quite sure of yet. He'd thought he'd have some more time to prepare. Not to mention Victoria there to support him. And to do most of the talking.

"Of course, yes, please," Victor said, opening the door a bit wider and standing to one side to let Ned in, and then closing the door behind him. When he turned, intending to lead Ned down to the study, he was brought up short by the sight on the stairs, unable to keep from gasping just a little. Beside him Ned made a little noise of surprise, too.

For there in a row on the staircase stood Victoria, Mary, Catherine and Lydia, each leaning on the railing and looking down at Victor and Ned there in the entry. All four of them were in various states of undress. Catherine was in a ruffly white dressing gown, plainly new, her hair loose around her shoulders. Lydia, her hair in a braid down her back, had simply thrown a robe on over her underthings. Victor knew because she'd not cinched it tightly enough, and her corset was plainly visible through the gap. He resisted the urge to clap a hand over Ned's eyes.

"Hello again, Mr. Weary!" said Catherine cheerfully, giving a little wave.

"Er, hello," Ned replied, plainly unsure of where to look. He seemed to settle for a spot on the far wall above their heads.

"So you're Ned Weary," said Mary, who was barefoot and clad only in her long cotton nightgown. "Nice to meet you, I'm Mary. Sorry I missed dinner with you, but I wasn't asked," she added with a bit of a sniff, looking pointedly at Victoria, who had stepped down onto the landing.

"That'll do, Mary," Lydia said, as, much to Victor's relief, she pulled her robe more closely around herself.

Victoria, thank goodness, had her modest old housecoat on instead of her lacy dressing gown. Even so, she was approaching Ned with a small welcoming smile as though it were perfectly natural to receive a guest with only a housecoat between their gaze and one's underthings. She always was oddly unconcerned about being seen in dishabille. Plainly she'd passed the trait along, Victor thought, looking at the girls on the staircase.

"What may we do for you?" she asked, coming to Victor's side and fixing Ned with a very motherly sort of look. Ned seemed to relax a little under Victoria's kind tone and gaze. Victor felt calmer, too, now that she was here. Even at ten in the evening, wearing a housecoat, she could put others at their ease.

Victor, for his part, was at a loss. Just when he thought he was in control, had solved a problem, had a plan, the universe conspired to show him that this was emphatically not the case. A wrench had been thrown into the gears of his carefully re-calibrated mental state. A man-shaped wrench named Ogdred Weary. Victoria seemed to sense how he was feeling, for she surreptitiously slipped her hand into his and squeezed his fingers gently, reassuringly, before letting go.

"I'm sorry to disturb you all," Ned apologized again, "but I dearly need to speak with Mr. Van Dort. And you, Mrs. Van Dort. You see, I-"

"Ned!" interrupted a breathlessly delighted Anne. Victor turned to look, marveling at how quiet she could be. She'd come down the stairs past her sisters, and stood there on the landing, her gaze locked on Ned. Who, Victor couldn't help noticing, had gone a bit soft and dreamy-eyed as soon as she'd spoken. And, when he set eyes on her, he'd gone ever so slightly slack-jawed.

Mercifully, Anne still had her dress on. But her hair was loose, freshly brushed and hanging down nearly to her waist, leftover curls framing her face.

"Anne!" Ned said, matching her tone, a warm smile lighting up his face as Anne walked toward him. Reaching out, she took his hand.

"Sir," Ned said, looking Victor right in the eye and squaring his shoulders, "I'm sorry for the confusion tonight, truly. I should have made my intentions clearly known, and...well, sir, I might as well simply say it. I am in love with Anne, and I'd like to marry her."

Ned seemed a little disappointed when no one gasped or cried out or, indeed, registered any surprise at all. Victor looked at him with what he hoped was a pleasant expression. He hadn't the energy left for anything beyond pleasantness. Questioningly, Ned looked down at Anne, who shrugged a little.

"Um," she whispered, "I told them already. Sorry."

"Oh," Ned replied. "All right then." For a long moment they simply stood, side by side, a unit, their question clear in their eyes as they both glanced back and forth between Victor and Victoria. Victor and Victoria just looked back at them.

"So?" Mary burst out, breaking the silence, clearly unable to take the suspense any longer. Victor looked up at the trio on the stairs. Mary had the look of someone desperate for the thrilling conclusion of a melodrama. Lydia and Catherine, though, looked more serious. They were watching him carefully, plainly eager to see what he'd do.

Victor let the silence go on for a bit. Victoria squeezed his hand again, looking up to fix him with that tender gaze of hers that always seemed to be just for him. He returned the gesture and the look, then, taking a deep breath, turned to Ned.

"All right," he said, ready to have this done with. And, honestly, rather desperate to get to bed. This had been a draining and dramatic evening. Then he softened, smiled at Anne, and said in a warmer tone, "Yes."

Anne gave a quiet little gasp, putting a hand to her mouth. "Yes?" she repeated, holding Ned's hand between both of hers.

"Yes?" asked Ned, as though sure he'd misheard. When his eyes met Victor's, there was a cautious delight there. So Victor broadened his smile and nodded.

"Yes," he repeated. He put his arm around Victoria's shoulders and glanced down at her. "Yes?" he asked, just to be sure.

"Yes," she said, slipping her arm around his back and giving him a gentle pat. _Well done_, the gesture seemed to say.

"Yes," Anne and Ned said at once, turning toward each other. They slid their arms around one another, almost as though preparing to waltz. Victor had to look away, happy for them as he was. The pair of them were glowing almost too much to be entirely decent as they smiled at each other. Victoria pressed her cheek against his arm briefly. He thought he heard her sigh a little.

"Yes!" squealed Catherine from the staircase, beside herself with delight. In her exuberance she threw one arm around Lydia's waist and the other around Mary's shoulders, squeezing them both to her. It was proof of the lovely atmosphere and general good feeling that they both hugged her back.

Ned, still with one arm around Anne, put out his hand for Victor to shake. This time Victor didn't hesitate to take it. They held one another's gaze for a moment. As far as Victor was concerned, this handshake seemed to seal the deal in an entirely different way than his earlier embrace with Anne. Particularly when, his voice thick with emotion, Ned said, "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Victor replied, giving Ned's hand one last shake. Victoria, after giving him one last pat, went to embrace Anne. After a moment the other girls joined her, shaking hands with Ned and giving Anne hugs until it seemed she was about to collapse under the excess of attention.

Victor just watched, having had his moment. _Ogdred Weary, my son-in-law, _he thought, trying it out. _My son-in-law, Mr. Weary. My daughter, Anne Weary..._He shook his head a little. He wasn't quite ready for that last one yet. He still needed some time.

That exuberant old wedding song flitted through his mind again. It pleased him to think that Anne's wedding would be much more like the one the dead had thrown for himself and Emily, at least in sheer passion and fun and pomp. Especially if Catherine was involved. And yet, he was sure she'd have the same quiet sort of joy, the quiet promise, that had marked his wedding to Victoria. She deserved both.

Yes.


	20. The Morning After, Part 1

Wedding Flowers-Chapter Eighteen

"No!"

"Now, Mother-"

"Have you _completely_ lost your mind?"

"No, Mother, I have not," Victoria said wearily into the telephone, leaning back in Victor's desk chair and hearing it creak softly as she did so.

Wanting privacy for this uncomfortable conversation, she'd decided to use the extension in the study, rather than the wall phone in the alcove near the stairs. She'd thought it would be best to inform her mother and mother-in-law as soon as possible about Anne's engagement. Particularly given the rather dramatic events of the previous evening, Victoria felt it best to get a fresh and early start. It was high time for a truce to be called. She'd flipped a coin to decide who to call first, and Maudeline had won.

Probably for the best, considering. Victoria did not have the strength or will to talk to Nell this early in the day. She needed all of the fortifying powers of tea and breakfast before dealing with her mother-in-law. After all, one fights on one's stomach. And everything, ever and always lately, was a fight when it came to Victoria and Nell. And besides, both Victor and Lydia were going to work today, so perhaps Victoria would be spared delivering the news to Nell. Oh, she'd hear about it, that was for certain, but she wouldn't have to take the offensive. Yes, being shouted at down the telephone was something Victoria would really rather prefer to endure only once in a day.

"You are certainly doing an excellent impression, in that case," Maudeline was saying, her outrage carrying clearly down the telephone line. Victoria propped her elbows up on desk, holding the earpiece away from her as her mother continued to scold.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," continued Maudeline. "You let your daughters get away with far too much, and look where we've ended up. Sneaking about with an _accountant_. The scandal!"

"There is nothing scandalous about it, Mother," Victoria put in when Maudeline paused to breathe. A disbelieving sniff on the other end of the line was her mother's only reply. "There truly isn't. Mr. Weary is a perfectly suitable young man. Besides, they're in love."

"Oh, not this _again_," said Maudeline in the tones of the terribly put-upon. Victoria went quiet, frowning at the telephone as her mother went on, "Did I not manage to teach you anything at all? You're going to let your daughters simply do as they please, with no regard whatsoever for their family obligations, their duties?"

"Duties?" Victoria repeated, her temper beginning to flare. She let it burn for a moment, just below the surface. The telephone's base made a dull thud as she set it down on the desk in front of her. Duties. Regard for family obligations. Victoria could see her younger self in her dim bedroom, fighting back tears as she stood before the mirror in her wedding gown. Even at this distance, it seemed, she could still feel Barkis' fingers on her wrist, could still feel his ring sliding onto her finger. Quickly she switched the earpiece to her right hand and gave her left wrist and fingers a few quick flexes to get rid them of the feeling.

When her flash of temper had dimmed again, bringing her back to the present, Victoria took a breath and picked up the telephone, bringing the mouthpiece to her face again. The time for fighting over all of this was over. A wedding meant a truce. It was Victoria's job to call one. So with as much civility as she could muster, she said, "Mother, I simply wanted to inform you that your granddaughter is engaged to be married. I will be sure to let you know as soon as we have set a date. Thank you again for coming to dinner yesterday."

Victoria was just about to disconnect the call, had her fingers on the lever, in fact, when Maudeline's voice came thundering through the earpiece, "Don't you dare disconnect, we are not through!"

"Had you something else to say, Mother?" Victoria asked innocently, rather enjoying the huff that came down the telephone in reply.

"Quite a lot, in fact," Maudeline said, her tone slow and dangerous. "But I'll only say this for now-you have three other chances, and I will not allow you to waste them."

The smile Victoria hadn't been aware she was wearing slid off of her face. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, worried in spite of herself.

"You marrying into new money with no family background or breeding was bad enough," her mother replied. "As I've told you before, we will not allow this trend to continue. For heaven's sake, this time it's an accountant. Whatever would be next? A blacksmith, perhaps? Or a swineherd? Why not slide all the way down, now that we've begun? No, we will not have it. And clearly you cannot be trusted to be mindful of your daughters' welfare."

Again, Victoria's temper flared. Her mother was a fine one to talk about minding the welfare of one's children. "Now, Mother!" she tried to interject, but Maudeline paid her no mind.

"I will speak to you later, my dear," Maudeline said in quite a different tone, and there was a click as she disconnected the call. For a second Victoria just sat there, the earpiece still to her ear, too worried and surprised to do much else. Finally she replaced the receiver, and pushed the telephone back to its usual place on the side of the desk.

The old chair creaked again as Victoria leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. From the hall came the chime of the grandfather clock, letting her know it was eight o'clock. Time to present herself for breakfast. Yet she did not immediately rise. Instead she sat, thinking.

Plainly the battle was not won. Had she and Victor truly thought it would be so easy? In all the happiness and promise of the previous night, it had been easy to think so. The two of them had gone to bed after Ned Weary had gone home. They'd spent half the night holding each other and drowsily talking in a way they hadn't in years. Almost as though they were newlyweds again. Everything seemed so full of affection and promise last night—they'd been confident that everything had worked out. However, intimate conversation in the safety and comfort of the dark was a world away from the harsh reality of consequences in the daylight.

So much for a truce. Victoria was on the defensive again. But she'd not let on immediately. No. They all needed a bit of a break. They'd all have a nice, happy breakfast together. Go over what had happened last night as a family, smile and kiss and congratulate Anne again. Then Victoria could start to plan.

But first, she desperately needed that cup of tea.


	21. The Morning After, Part 2

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Nineteen

"Meetings all morning," Lydia was saying, reading from her leather-bound notebook. No one kept lists like Lydia. "The most important is at ten, we're closing on one of the canneries we bought, so you and I and Mr. Van Schelven and our lawyer will all have to be there. Shouldn't take long. At least, I hope it won't, because right after that we've got shareholders from that fish market in Norway coming to meet with us."

Victor only had half an ear on what she was saying. Not only was he worn out from the previous evening, he was worn out in advance of what he was sure the day would bring. From the apparent length and breadth of Lydia's list, the workday would be daunting. Particularly since his mind was bound to be elsewhere. How was it Lydia was so able to focus? Other girls would be thinking about their little sister being engaged, might even have taken the day off, it seemed to him. In all honesty _he'd _quite wanted to take the day off, but Lydia had given him such a deathly glare when he'd hinted at staying home, that he'd swiftly changed his mind. Adding to his worries was how Victoria had given him advance warning that Nell was bound to be on the warpath over Anne's engagement. She'd even suggested that he come home for lunch, rather than go to his parents', just until tempers cooled and settled again. Probably not a bad idea. Victor didn't enjoy being shouted at, and Nell was bound to want to do just that. Easing back in his seat, Victor swallowed a sigh.

While Lydia quickly and efficiently gave him the day's to-do list (at least she'd been kind enough not to mention that he should really know all of this already), Victor was weighing his options. He wanted to talk to her about what had happened last evening. After things had worked out so happily he'd been prepared not to bother, to let well enough alone. Yes, she'd helped Anne keep secrets, but the secret was out now. No harm done, really. But then he and Victoria had ended the evening with a lovely long chat in bed, during which she'd shared some things with him. Things that made him realize, again, how little he understood Lydia. Such as Lydia being the brains behind all of this cannery business, the acquisitions and the mergers and everything else Victor had no idea about. Such as how Lydia had been ready to throw it all away. Such as how Lydia had really been prepared to take whoever her grandmothers had picked out for her.

So now he wanted to talk to her. As her father, he should talk to her. What made it difficult, though, was the fact that the two of them, well, didn't really talk.

They'd not talked to each other, not really, for several years. From the age of thirteen or so on, Lydia had treated him more or less as a fellow boarder in their house. Moving past him with only a nod if they happened to meet on the stairs. Terse conversation on bland topics if they happened to be alone together at the breakfast table. Civil and polite, and perhaps sometimes a joke or two on a special occasion, but that was all. Not that they'd ever really been close, not like he and Anne, but at least there used to be some affection. It hurt to lose it.

_What happened? _Victor asked himself, studying Lydia's profile, quite not listening as she continued to read from her notebook. _What happened between us?_

"Is something wrong?" Lydia finally asked, looking up from her notebook and catching him staring at her. Quickly he looked away. He'd not been aware that he'd been gazing at her so intently. Clearing his throat, he pretended to be interested in the view of the muddy little river as they crossed the bridge.

"No," he replied, trying to smile. Lydia cocked an eyebrow disbelievingly before turning her attention back to her list. She held her notebook closer to her face, squinting at some note she'd made, and Victor caught a brief flash of gold in the corner of his eye. When he looked he saw it was her monogram, stamped in gold-leaf in one corner of her notebook. Very professional, very like her. Looking a bit more closely, though, he saw that it read only _LVD_. The _E, _her middle initial, was conspicuously absent. The forced smile dropped off his face even as his stomach seemed to drop an inch or two. He looked out the window again, a melancholy sweeping over him as they moved through the village gates.

_Who am I kidding?_ Victor thought. He knew _exactly _what had happened between them. Emily had happened. As far as Lydia was concerned it might as well have happened yesterday, and she'd felt that way ever since she'd been thirteen and first heard the story. He'd never dreamed she'd take hearing the story the way she did—even the memory of it surprised and hurt him. He didn't like to think about it, particularly after how fondly he'd been thinking of Emily just last evening. It made him feel strangely guilty. And he didn't want to feel guilty today. Today was a happy day.

_Happy,_ he repeated to himself. Outside the carriage window the Everglot mansion loomed into view. Victor was rather sure he caught a glimpse of Maudeline at her drawing room window, opera glasses in hand. With a sigh he leaned back in his seat again, fingers drumming on his knees.

"Everything's fine," he murmured, more to himself than to her. They both were quiet as Mr. Reed pulled the carriage up to Van Dort's Fish, swaying a bit as they lurched to a stop. Trying to put his melancholy out of mind and focus on making this a proud, father-of-the-happy-bride-to-be sort of day, Victor straightened his lapels and made to open the carriage door.

"I never said thanks," Lydia said suddenly. Victor paused with his hand on the door handle, turning toward her. Her cheeks looked a little pink, her eyes on her handbag on her lap. "Catherine and I...I mean, we talked about it, and we meant to...well, thank you. So thank you." She sounded almost embarrassed as she made a show of fussing about straightening her hat and closing her notebook. Her cheeks were even faintly pink. Victor had no idea what to say. A pleasantly warm spot was starting to grow in his chest, pushing away his melancholy and guilt.

"For what you did last night," Lydia clarified, pretending to be absorbed in securing the clasp on her handbag, unwilling to quite meet his eye. Jerkily, so clearly awkward that it was endearing, she went on, "With Grandmother and Grandmamma, with that list. It was great, it really was. And, well, for...being nice. For being happy for me when...when you thought that, you know...I was engaged. That was...it meant a lot. So thanks." Finished, Lydia swallowed and fiddled with the now very secure clasp on her bag.

Victor tilted his head to one side, sure that he was smiling a very dopey sort of smile. Had he been the hair-ruffling type, he'd have ruffled her hair. As it was he was dangerously close to saying _Aw! _and calling her a good girl, as though she were a puppy. That, of course, would have been suicide. So Victor curbed his impulse and settled for the dopey grin, overcome with delight and affection for his daughter. He couldn't help it. This was just about as sweet as Lydia got, and it was directed at him. It was like getting a surprise visit from her six-year-old self, a little girl who tagged along with him everywhere and could never seem to get enough of his company. A little girl who was long gone. A little girl that Victor dearly missed.

Having said her piece, she now seemed desperate for him to open the door and let her out so that they could go about their business and never speak of this moment of cuddly weakness again. Indeed, she'd pointedly shifted a bit closer to the door, and was keeping her gaze even more pointedly on the door handle. But Victor didn't want to break the spell. He wanted to hang onto this feeling as long as he could, particularly in the midst of all of the change currently going on. Here, just now, in this carriage, he and Lydia were simple again, were father and daughter again.

"You're welcome," he replied, trying to put as much feeling as he could into his words. So that she'd know. That he loved her. And, most important, that she could trust him. There was a lot more he wanted to say, but he knew Lydia wouldn't stand for too much sentimentality. So he again resisted the urge to tousle her hair or chuck her under the chin, and just nodded at her. Dearly he wished he could say more, but he knew that would only spoil it.

Lydia nodded back, once, curtly. Businesslike again. But all the same, Victor was sure he saw a tiny little ghost of a smile on her face when she finally met his eye.

All of a sudden, the day seemed happy again.


	22. The Mourning Bride

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty

"I've only just heard the news. Congratulations, Miss Van Dort!"

Lydia, in a rush after the first meeting of the day, looked down to see the boy who swept up the floors and emptied the bins grinning up at her from where he knelt polishing the handle of her open office door.

"Not me, my younger sister, Anne," she said for what felt like the millionth time that morning. As she edged past him into her office, she added in a kinder tone, "I'll pass it along, though, thanks, Joseph." He gave her a grin and a little salute with his polishing rag before moving on.

Lydia shook her head as she rifled through a stack of files on her desk, looking for the research she'd pulled together on the Norwegian markets. Apparently Grandad hadn't been as crazy as she'd thought. It seemed that everybody at the cannery had been under the impression that she and Ned had been working on more than the books when they'd been alone together in her office. So when Ned had arrived that morning bursting with the news of his engagement, just about everybody had immediately turned to Lydia with their congratulations.

Setting everyone straight proved a little awkward. Most especially because nobody seemed to know who Anne was. It seemed that as far as the men at the cannery were concerned, Father's children consisted of Miss Van Dort the Honorary Son, Little-Wossname-the-Skinny-Youngest-One, and Ooh-Cor-the-Blonde. Lydia'd only heard that last one in passing and quite by accident. Given that the man who'd said it still had kneecaps, Father probably hadn't been within earshot.

Ned, of course, had his chest out today. As far out as he could manage given his general temperament and permanently sloped bookkeeper's shoulders, anyway. He'd been useless so far this morning. Father wasn't much better, happy and proud and walking about with as close to a strut as he was capable of. Frankly, it was embarrassing. For heaven's sake, it was just an engagement. Nice and all, but they'd be engaged for at least a year. She'd much rather everyone focus on work whilst at work. Lydia was thankful for the fact that the novelty had swiftly worn off for everybody else, and they were back to business. There was a lot of work they all had to get through on this tightly scheduled and important day.

Besides all of the meetings and planning sessions, she still had to sit down with Mr. Van Schelven, the vice-president and general manager, in order to hand over her notes and help plan his business trip. She'd been putting it off, but now that the trip was scheduled to happen within the next two weeks, it would be unprofessional to put it off further. Even thinking about it made her hackles rise. As she'd proven time and again, most recently this very morning, Lydia Van Dort was Managing Director at Van Dort's Fish, no matter what the sign on the door said. And she should get to go meet with other managing directors.

_Think of the devil, _Lydia thought as Mr. Van Schelven stepped into her office after a cursory knock on the open door.

One of those bantam rooster types, he was dark, barrel-chested and square-jawed, and height-wise only just came up to her shoulder. All in all, he had the look of a man who'd be more comfortable out on a boat hauling nets than in an office wearing a sharp suit. Beneath his working-class looking exterior, though, beat the heart of a shrewd robber baron. He was an excellent business partner.

"Have you that research on the Norway markets?" he asked, approaching and rapping his knuckles on the desk for emphasis. "They'll be here in ten minutes."

"Here's part of it," she said without looking up. Lydia didn't care to be rapped at. She held out a thick file, which he took from her with a nod.

"Any particular reason for those?" he asked. Lydia looked up to see him gesturing at a little vase full of cinquefoil in the middle of the desk, tied with satin ribbon. The little splash of yellow, dull as it was, stood out in the rather drab office. No wonder they'd caught his eye. She'd placed them there in a rush after arriving, and then had promptly forgotten them.

Lydia shrugged, prepared to forget about them again. "My grandfather gave them to me this morning," was all she said, and Mr. Van Schelven wasn't interested enough to probe further, for which Lydia was glad.

Grandad had presented her with the flowers that morning, thinking she might need cheering up. Mother had telephoned he and Grandmamma just after breakfast to tell them the news of Anne's engagement. So as far as Grandad understood it, his favorite grandchild had broken off a love affair only to have the young man turn right around and get engaged to her younger sister. Lydia didn't think it worth it to correct him, at least after she assured him that she was fine and that he needn't fire Ned on charges of bounderism. Anyway, Lydia had found the flowers a very sweet gesture, mistaken as it was. All the same, she'd rather not have to explain it to Mr. Van Schelven.

"My father needs to have a look at that information on Norway before the meeting, too," she said, changing the subject. When she glanced up, she and Mr. Van Schelven shared a knowing sort of look.

"I'm very sure he does," Mr. Van Schelven murmured, keeping his tone just on the right side of respectful as he turned his attention back to the file.

Lydia, feeling disloyal, swiftly looked down to cover her grin. Poor Father. Business simply was not his forte. Certainly not in the way it was hers or Mr. Van Schelven's. Grandad had told her that Father and Mr. Van Schelven hadn't really mixed much when they were boys, despite their fathers being friends and workmates. It wasn't hard to see why. Not that they actively disliked one another, as far as Lydia could tell. They both simply seemed to think that the other one was precisely the wrong type of fellow, a prejudice that most likely had its roots in one boyhood scrap or another. It was a dynamic that had continued into adulthood. And was perversely fun to watch, in Lydia's opinion, given the right sort of atmosphere at any particular meeting.

"Where is he?" she asked, knowing that Father would need lots of prep time so that he was not overwhelmed. Father tended to break down when overwhelmed, and this was the absolute worst day for that to happen.

"Oh, finishing up your grandfather and the Offhaus Fishworks director, I'd imagine," he replied. Then he glanced up with a very nearly wolfish sort of half-smile, and amended, "Or the _former _director of the _former _Offhaus Fishworks, I should say."

They shared another look, this one self-satisfied and congratulatory. Offhaus was their biggest competitor. Or their _former _biggest competitor. Now they were officially a Van Dort's Fish facility.

"I'll make sure he's quite up to speed on the fish market background, Miss Van Dort," Mr. Van Schelven assured her, still with that same grin. "But then, you'll be there to assist, so everything should go swimmingly."

Lydia was about to comment on his achingly dreadful pun when her and Father's secretary popped his head through the door.

"There's someone to see you, Miss Van Dort," Bernard announced. Before Lydia could speak Mr. Van Schelven waved a hand.

"Not now, she's busy," he said, not looking up. Lydia bristled slightly.

"Thank you, Mr. Van Schelven, I can speak for myself," she told him, her tone level. She was rather beyond being annoyed by his manner by this point—well, really, the manner of just about every man her father's age or older. Briefly he glanced at her, then waved his hand in the secretary's general direction in a _be my guest_ sort of way. So she turned to the secretary.

"Not now, I'm busy," she said. "Tell them to come back this afternoon, please, Bernard."

With a nod Bernard disappeared, only to reappear just as quickly.

"He won't leave," he said. "Says it's urgent."

"Oh, for..." Lydia huffed, irritated. She paused just long enough in searching through her files to roll her eyes at the ceiling. "I'm just between meetings. Who on earth is it?"

"It's Sir Ralph Glottberg," Bernard told her.

Lydia froze, the rest of the market research on Norway gripped in her hand. No, it couldn't be. Surely not. Not here at her place of business, not after what Father had done.

"Planning to buy the lumber mill, too?" Mr. Van Schelven asked, his tone a joking one as he pried the file out of her hand. Lydia couldn't bring herself to reply. She was too busy thinking.

The Glottbergs were local merchants, new money, just like the Van Dorts. The big difference between them was that the Glottbergs had a title. Just a baronetcy, but a title all the same. Grandmamma had always been rather bitter about that. Sir Ralph had inherited his family's lumber business and the family title after his father's death a few years ago.

He also happened to be the man her grandmothers had picked out for her to marry.

Because of what Father had done last night, she'd assumed nothing would come of that stupid list. Catherine had picked up the remains of the list under cover of everyone leaving last night, and had shared it with Lydia after hauling her upstairs. Seeing their grandmothers' choices, they'd been very glad that Father had done what he had. After they'd read it over, Catherine had chucked it in the fire for real. Then Ned had returned, and it turned out that at least one of them was getting married, and Lydia thought that would be that.

Clearly she had underestimated her grandmothers. Lydia couldn't figure out the reasoning. Father had said no. Mother had said no. That should have been it. Her grandmothers couldn't _really _force her into an engagement. Not over Father and Mother's heads. She was of age, after all. Lydia calmed a bit.

"Should I show Sir Ralph in, Miss?" Bernard asked, sounding unsure.

"No," she said curtly. There was no reason at all for her to speak with Sir Ralph. She wasn't interested in anything he might be selling, lumber-related or otherwise. Lydia smoothed a few errant strands of hair back into her chignon only to feel them promptly come down again. So she pushed them behind her ears, feeling a mess. Lydia hated feeling a mess. Straightening her blouse and smoothing down her skirt, she took a breath, trying not to notice the way that Mr. Van Schelven was staring at her.

"No," she repeated, holding her head high. "I'm busy today, tell him I can't see him." With a nod, Bernard disappeared.

"I'll go find your father," said Mr. Van Schelven, holding up the files. On his way out the door he turned back to her.

"Everything all right?" he asked, looking at her closely.

"Perfectly," Lydia lied with a brisk nod.

"All right then, see you shortly," said Mr. Van Schelven, heading out the door. When he was gone, Lydia bent back over the desk and went about collecting the rest of the paperwork and notes she'd need for the meeting. She pushed her hair back again, annoyed at having wasted so much time.

Absorbed and single-minded in her task, Lydia wasn't aware someone had entered the room until she noticed a shadow fall over the desk. When she looked up, she saw Sir Ralph Glottberg across the desk from her. She had to stifle a groan of irritation. Bernard was fired, she decided.

Sir Ralph was thirty-five, had a ratty mustache and an absolutely enormous chin, and, unlike most men in the village, was just about her height. She'd only met him a handful of times, mostly at dinner parties Grandmamma had thrown, but she'd seen enough of him to know why most ladies gave him a wide berth. Lydia found him tedious and entitled and smarmy, an upper-class twit without the well-bred part to offset the twittishness. But like most men of this type, he clearly saw himself as utterly charming and debonair.

Lydia hadn't yet discovered a trait in men that repulsed her quite so much as baseless self-confidence. Sir Ralph had it in spades.

"I'm sorry if you didn't get the message," Lydia said, still going through her papers, "but I am very busy and can't see you today."

Sir Ralph merely smiled in a cocky sort of way, and took the liberty of stepping around the desk to stand next to her.

"Not even a good morning?" he asked, standing much too close. Lydia, her annoyance growing, took a step sideways. Sir Ralph was not deterred, sure as he was of his own charm.

"These are for you," he said, pushing a very ugly bouquet at her. Out of the corner of her eye Lydia saw that he'd brought her what must have been greenhouse flowers.

_Mourning Bride, _she thought, taking in the spiny dark flowers. _How fitting. _When she didn't respond, he simply set them on the desk, nearly knocking over the little vase of cinquefoil. Lydia reached out to steady it.

"You're welcome," said Sir Ralph, sounding nearly amused. Even when he was trying to be friendly he made her skin crawl. Lydia didn't have the time nor the inclination to mess about. She turned to him fully and drew herself up to her full height, glad she'd worn boots with a higher than usual heel today.

"What do you want?" she asked, rather sure she already knew. She moved her hand away when he moved as though to try to take it. But as it turned out he was reaching into his pocket.

"You're very coy, just like always," he said in a near drawl, his best imitation of an upper-crust accent. Lydia pulled a face. Coy? Clearly he was confusing her with someone else. Maybe he was trying to be witty. Either way, she wanted to backhand him.

"Lady Everglot sent me the good news this morning," he said, taking a small card with the Everglot crest on it from his pocket. Holding it between two fingers, he held it out to her. Lydia didn't take it.

"What good news?" she asked, silently cursing her Grandmother Everglot and vowing that when she was writing the checks, the Everglot allowance from Van Dort's Fish would be severely reduced.

Sir Ralph laughed. _Laughed_. Lydia narrowed her eyes until he stopped. He took a step closer, still holding up the card.

"That you've agreed to marry me," he said, that same oily sort of smile on his face.

Lydia had the feeling that she'd just been punched in the stomach by an icy fist. So they _were _going to try to force her to do it. Through conniving and lying, just like they'd done to Mother. So they thought they could rely on her sense of family duty and expectation, did they? That was one trait she had not inherited from her mother, that was certain. Lydia might have underestimated her grandmothers, but they had also underestimated her.

While she'd been ranting inwardly and waiting for the icy block in her middle to thaw, Sir Ralph had taken his opportunity to sidle even closer. When he attempted to slide his arm around her waist, she pushed him off.

"Oh, come along," he said, at least having the decency to pull his arm back and retreat a half-step. "There's no need to be that way. I'm very pleased you've agreed. We can have the wedding as soon as you like. You'll be very comfortable, I promise. The sawmill could really use a bit of cash, and your grandmother assured me that you'd have a sizable dowry. And we've certainly got along all right when we've socialized, wouldn't you agree?"

Lydia blinked, her lip curling. She wasn't sure how her nearly breaking Sir Ralph's thumb while repelling his clumsy attempt at a grope after one of Grandmamma's dinner parties translated to _"getting along," _but she had no interest in arguing the point. She settled for giving him a cold stare, and hoping fervently that he'd finish up getting sawed in half by his own equipment in a freak accident, just like his uncle had.

"I'm not sure what my grandmother told you," she said, tilting her head back so that she could look down her nose at him, "but my father already said no. And I'm saying no. I have to get back to work. You may show yourself out."

Sir Ralph did not move. He remained in front of her, blocking her way. If she wanted to, she knew, she could probably knock him over—after all, they were about equally matched. However, she really didn't want to touch him, not even to give him a good hard shove. He'd probably take it as a show of interest. Repulsed even at the thought, Lydia just glared at him.

"Get out of my way," she said, beginning to feel just the barest inkling of a threat, especially when the look in Sir Ralph's eyes seemed to change. She found herself making an inventory from memory of things in the office that were heavy and right to hand from where she stood.

"Miss Lydia," he said, with a heavy sort of note in his voice, "I'll be honest with you. As much as I'd be perfectly pleased to court you and bring you round to the idea of being my wife, I must admit that I have a rather more pressing reason for wanting to marry you as soon as possible."

What was it about the way he spoke that felt like an unwelcome touch? Oh, she had no doubt he'd love to court her bank account and bring her round to the idea of letting him put his hands all over her. That sense of threat was growing, beginning to edge out her annoyance and replace it with alarm.

And beneath her mounting alarm, she couldn't help noticing the irony. Here she was, in a building full of men, some of them very big, men who included her father, her grandfather, and her future brother-in-law. Yet here she was, cornered in her own office with a smarmy git who thought they were engaged and had her stuck between him, a desk, and a wall. Figured. Where in God's name _was _everybody?

Without breaking eye contact, Sir Ralph reached into his jacket pocket yet again, and withdrew another little card. This one, Lydia could tell, was of an official nature. She glanced from the card to him and back again.

"They're conscripting, as you know," he told her in a low, serious voice. "And now they've raised the age limit. Twenty-nine's not the high end any more. They're taking everyone from eighteen to forty, now."

_Father, _had been her immediate thought, her chest tightening. But upon hearing those last words she relaxed, at least a little relieved. Thank goodness, most everyone she knew was too old to be called up, Father included. Certainly all of the men she worked with were. Except for...Her chest tightened again, the nasty taste of fear rising in the back of her throat so that she had to swallow it down.

_Ned,_ she thought, going cold. For a long moment she stood, immoveable, only barely remembering to breathe. _Maybe nothing will come of it...maybe Ned will be lucky. Please let Ned be lucky._ She wasn't quite sure who she was asking for that favor. The realization that Sir Ralph had moved even closer to her distracted her from her thoughts.

"Have you been reading the papers?" he asked, in that same low voice, so unlike his usual drawl. His voice had a note of fear in it now. Lydia had the strangest feeling that she was getting a glimpse of some deeply hidden part of him. The feeling kept her from breaking eye contact as he continued, "I'm sure if we still had a crier he'd be yelling about it all the time...or maybe not. From what I've heard, it's terrible. All those aeroplanes. Guns. Landmines. Bloody stuff. Awful. I would really rather not have to be mixed up in that."

"Well, I don't blame you," she said curtly, but not insincerely. Her thoughts were still with Ned, and Anne, and what this might mean for them. Looking away from him, she added, "Best of luck to you."

With that, she made a move to step around him, intending to go find somebody to muscle him out of here. But Sir Ralph grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back before she got very far. Lydia was too shocked to do or say anything, which gave him time to grab her other wrist as well.

"Get your hands off me," she said dangerously, anger finally overcoming her shock. Lydia tried to pull her hands loose, but Sir Ralph hung on. He was stronger than she'd thought. Leaning more forward, he put his face close to hers. Lydia leaned as far away from him as she could manage. He had that weird look in his eyes again.

"Married men are exempt," he explained quickly, in pleading tone that juxtaposed very strangely with the way he was tightening his grip on her wrists. "Marry me, and I won't have to go."

If Lydia hadn't been so stunned by his effrontery, and so alarmed at being manhandled, she might have laughed. Oh, he was desperate. And pathetic. And such, such an idiot.

"You're only exempt if you're married _before_ you're called up," she told him as nastily as she could manage. "Sorry to bear the bad news."

With a wrenching tug she managed to free herself, aided by the fact that Sir Ralph seemed momentarily stunned by her news, as though trying to decide whether or not she was right. Using both hands she gave him a good hard shove away from her. Still seething with anger and adrenaline, feeling a sting in her wrists that told her she'd probably have some bruises tomorrow, she balled her fists and stood up straight.

"I'm not going to marry you. Get out of my office," she ordered. Sir Ralph didn't move. For a beat they squared off, long enough that Lydia was beginning to worry that she might have to fend him off again. If so, she'd break his thumb for real, this time, if not his entire hand.

"Lydia, the gentlemen from the fisketorget are here," came Father's voice from the doorway. Lydia turned, more pleased to see him than she could ever remember being. Father was halfway into the office before he noticed that Sir Ralph was there.

"Hello," he said, sounding wary as he came to stand at Lydia's side, and looked Sir Ralph up and down. "What's going-?"

"I was just leaving," Sir Ralph interrupted him. Then, seeming to remember himself a bit, he added, "Sir."

"Oh," said Father. They watched, Father uncertain and Lydia with contempt, as Sir Ralph made for the door. An impulse of temper suddenly swept over her that she couldn't resist.

"Za rodinu, Sir Ralph," she said in a nasty sarcastic tone, adding a mock-salute not unlike the one Joseph had given her earlier. She smugly gratified when he turned and fixed such a look on her that she was sure, had she been a man, he'd have punched her right in the mouth. Turning swiftly on his heel, he left. They heard the outer office door slam soon after.

Father turned to her, a concerned frown on his face. Before he could open his mouth, Lydia pressed her hands to her face and let out a short, slightly hysterical bark of a laugh. That, she noticed when she looked up again, only deepened his frown.

"Liddie?" he ventured, watching her closely. She tossed her hands in the air before she crossed her arms over her chest.

"He wanted to marry me!" she blurted, the outraged shock coming back to her a bit. Father, judging by his face, hadn't been expecting that one. But Lydia didn't pause to give him a chance to speak. Once she'd started talking, it was as though she'd thrown open the floodgates. Father's eyes seemed to widen with every word she spoke, and he seemed uncertain about moving, as though he might set her off further.

"Grandmother Everglot sent him a note saying that you'd approved the match, and that all he had to do was come and make it official with me," she ranted, letting loose all of the emotion that had been building while she'd had to deal with Sir Ralph. "At my place of _work_, can you believe it? He came right in thinking I'd be just thrilled to be Lady Glottberg, he didn't even _ask_. Oh, I can't believe they'd do this to me. What are the Norwegians going to think? I mean, to harass me with this ridiculousness at _work_! And then it turns out he's been called up and he wanted to marry me right this minute because he thought being married would get him out of it. Oh, _oh, _what an utter—and then he had the nerve to grab me and-"

"Wait a moment, _what_?" Father asked, his eyebrows lowering. But Lydia waved him off.

"I'm all right, I shoved him off," she said dismissively. She put her hands over her face again, shaking her head. "How could they think I'd fall for that? Did they really think they could...that I'd..." Out of steam, Lydia dropped her hands and sighed.

They were quiet for a moment.

"I'm glad you're all right," Father finally told her, as though unsure of what else to say. Then, after a pause, he asked, "Was he on the list, do you think?"

Lydia turned to him and nodded. "Yes, I do," she replied, deciding not to tell him any more about the list right now. She just let herself feel very thankful again that Mother had talked her out of agreeing to marry whoever her grandmothers had chosen. To think how she might have ended up. Lady Lydia Glottberg.

"Ah," said Father. To her surprise, that was all. She'd expected something more. He bit his lip and looked down at the floor. "I suppose it was silly to think I'd fixed it so easily."

"It was a very good try," Lydia told him, trying to be nice. Father gave her a rueful little smile.

"I wonder what they're planning next," he said quietly, and Lydia did not know what to say. He shrugged a little, jerkily.

"At least we know...well, the...sort of thing to expect," he said with a tiny smile, making a stab at humor. Lydia tried and failed to return the smile.

Thoughtful, Father reached out and ran his fingers over the little bunch of cinquefoil. He looked and sounded so defeated. Instead of feeling her usual annoyance at Father's defeatist tendencies, Lydia felt moved. Despite everything, Father tried. He truly did. That was better than nothing, she was beginning to realize.

Lydia, for the first time in years, reached out tentatively. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she put her hand into Father's, her fingers to his palm. Open-mouthed with surprise, Father looked at their hands, then at her, his surprise easing into one of his very father-ish looks.

_Funny,_ she thought rather stupidly as he closed his own fingers over hers, _surely his hand used to be bigger than this._ Since when were her fingers longer than his?

Being moved now, though, felt...wrong. Somehow disloyal. To have spent so much time being so deeply angry with him, not trusting him. To stand here and try to be kind when still, deep down, her hidden girl-self was still holding on to a feeling of betrayal. Where a moment ago she'd been warmed by it, she now felt undeserving of his fondness, just as she had in the carriage that morning. Ten years of bad feeling was tough to reverse. Uncomfortable, Lydia pulled her hand away as gently as she could.

"We'll be fine, I'm sure," she said, glad that her voice didn't betray her unsettled feelings.

Father's only reply was to nod. That same thoughtful look on his face, he rubbed his palms together, eyes on the far wall over her shoulder. Lydia didn't need to turn to know what he was looking at. A portrait of him and Mother hung on that wall. And next to it, an elaborate scientific painting of a blue butterfly. A pang went through her. As ever, she wished she knew which one he was looking at, and why. And stood ready to judge him over it. All of those nice feelings were gone now. It had been too long, everything was too deep.

She couldn't think about this any longer. Work. She needed to work.

"Did Mr. Van Schelven show you those notes?" she asked, aware that her words came out sharply and not caring. She didn't wait for an answer before scooping up her papers and notebook and heading for the door. "We have to get to that meeting, Father, come on."

Father seemed startled by the abrupt change of topic. He nodded again, following her to the door. He stayed quiet as, desperate to distract herself with something useful to do, Lydia started telling him, from memory, the rest of the day's agenda.

"And I've got to see Mr. Van Schelven at some point," she finished, "We need to plan that trip to the canneries we're taking over, and he needs the research I've done, and the financial projections...what?"

By now they were standing outside Grandad's office, waiting for him to finish up a telephone call before they met with the Norwegians, who had been led into the meeting room by Mr. Van Schelven. Lydia ran a hand over her forehead, and noticed that Father was looking at her in a way that suggested he had just had an idea. A sneaky one, perhaps.

"Nothing," he said, his tone just a bit too flippant. Folding his hands behind his back, he pretended to be very interested in a spot on the floor. "It's simply...you truly enjoy this, don't you? Work, I mean. You're...cut out for it."

Lydia didn't reply beyond a fairly confused nod. One would think this had been evident. So she just waited for him to continue. Eventually he looked back up at her.

"Why not let me talk to Mr. Van Schelven?" he said. Lydia stared, surprised. She'd not been expecting that. Father grinned crookedly, still with that wide-eyed just-a-bit-too-innocent look.

"You're busy, after all," he explained, now looking at the ceiling. "And perhaps...well, perhaps I have an idea or two. For improving this trip."

"What ideas?" Lydia asked, unable to keep her eyes from narrowing. Father didn't even know how to read a profit projection, what could he have in mind?

"Just ideas," he replied. "Ones that I should probably present. To your grandfather, as well. Will you trust me?"

Lydia didn't know what to say. What was he up to? He was up to something, he looked far too pleased with himself to not be up to something. After a moment's thought, and a resolve to immediately check in with Mr. Van Schelven herself after Father met with him, she nodded.

Father grinned again, and smoothed down his tie as Grandad's office door opened. He came out to join them leaning heavily on his cane, and mopping his brow with a handkerchief. When he got near Lydia he put a hand on her arm.

"Your grandmother says you're making a dreadful mistake, you'll end up an old maid at this rate, and if you know what's good for you you'll reconsider," Grandad told her.

"Duly noted," said Lydia.

"Smashing!" Grandad said, stuffing his handkerchief back in his pocket. Slapping his hands together, he added, "Now then, let's go chat with those Norwegians, shall we?" He set off, Father and Lydia behind him.

As she took her seat at the table in the meeting room between Father and Mr. Van Schelven, she thought of her grandmothers' machinations, and wondered if any special guests had arrived for Mary and Catherine yet. Across the table Ned caught her eye. He looked so...perfectly happy. The image of the conscription notice flashed in her mind.

_Or a special delivery for Ned,_ she thought, feeling sick as Grandad welcomed the Norwegians and began the meeting.


	23. In the Garden

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty-One

Anne sat quietly on the garden bench, gazing at the lilac bushes. Ned sat next to her, equally quiet. The scent of honeysuckle drifted over to them from the trellis. A small butterfly fluttered its way past, headed for the heliotrope. The sunlight was pale but warm, and only the occasional chirp of a bird from the wood nearby cut the silence.

Under different circumstances, it would have been the perfect day. Anne swallowed. It _should _have been the perfect day. Here she was, sitting with the man she loved in a beautiful garden on a lovely afternoon, on their first day of being officially engaged. They should be talking about plans for their wedding, about setting up housekeeping together, about how their life together would be. About the future.

Last night, the future had seemed so promising, so assured, it had given way to a morning of fantasizing. She'd seen herself in a lacy wedding gown, lighting a candle with Ned at the altar, and had felt a tingle all through her. She'd grown warm with pleasure when she'd envisioned sitting with Ned in his little house in the village, in front of a roaring fireplace in the parlor, a brood of children at their feet and a cat curled up on the footstool.

The swiftness with which life could change, she reflected now, could be brutal.

Next to her, Ned turned the little envelope over and over in his hands, as though he couldn't quite believe it was real. Anne studied his profile, saw the way his mouth turned down at the corners, worry seeming to draw his whole face more tightly. She'd never seen him look like that before. Pressing her lips together, she turned her gaze away. Their first test shouldn't have come this early on. It was dreadfully unfair.

"When did it arrive?" Anne finally managed to ask, her first words to him today since she'd answered the door and, seeing his face, immediately asked, _"What's wrong?"_

"Just a little after noon," Ned replied, his voice low and quiet, thoughtful. "The postman stopped me just as I was leaving work to come here, to see you for lunch. It didn't do much for my appetite, I can tell you."

He gave her a little nudge with his elbow, and one of those little sideways grins that she loved so much. But Anne didn't smile. She couldn't. Not when it felt as though her stable foundation had crumbled beneath her, leaving her without anything to hold onto.

Except for Ned. For now, he was still here. Swallowing again, she slipped her arm through his, holding close. Ned edged a bit closer to her, so that their legs were touching. They sat that way for a long moment. Anne wanted to say something, she felt that she _should _say something, but words seemed so inadequate. Ned was the one to break the silence.

"Somehow I didn't truly think this would happen," he said. Anne rested her head on his shoulder as he went on, "It seems silly now, but all the same...it just didn't seem real. Even with the aeroplanes, and the newspapers, and even with all of the accounts I handle for the canned fish we sell to the military. It didn't seem real."

_And now it's too real, _Anne thought, pressing her cheek into his arm. She both heard and felt Ned sigh heavily, and they both looked down at the envelope in his hand.

"May I see it?" she asked, tilting her head to look up at him. When he looked back at her, a questioning sort of look on his face, she added, "I'd like...I'd like to see it for myself."

It seemed silly, but somehow she needed that evidence. To see it for herself, and know for certain that this was no joke. Luckily, he seemed to understand. Without quarrel he handed the envelope over, watching her closely as she pulled out the little card.

_NOTICE OF CALL AND TO APPEAR FOR PHYSICAL EXAMINATION, _it announced in large letters, topped by an official-looking seal. Whether of the military or the government, or perhaps royalty, Anne didn't know. Nor did she really care. What mattered more to her was what came next. It was a form letter, in plain type, with blanks left so that it could be made out to a specific person. The blanks had been filled with her Ned, in a stranger's neat handwriting.

Anne read it over a few times. It was short, simple, and devastating. Ogdred Weary, who resided in this village and was thirty-two years of age, had been enlisted in the military. He was to report the following day for examination and to be given further orders.

And that was all.

"Surely...surely you could contest it, somehow," Anne said weakly, handing the card back. Ned tucked it into this jacket pocket, and then put an arm around her.

"I could," he agreed, his voice gentle. "But that doesn't mean I should. I'd be lying if I said I was a conscientious objector, and I'm not a widower with children. The work I do at the cannery isn't essential enough to count as a civilian contribution..." he trailed off with a shrug.

Anne wasn't surprised. They'd talked about this before, after all. In oblique terms, of course, and strictly hypothetically. She remembered a day, weeks ago, when they'd seen the first aeroplane. They'd been taking a walk through the woods, along the path that skirted around the cemetery. Anne had never heard such a noise before. Not even the old train that had taken her back and forth to school had made so much noise. Ned had pointed out the symbol on the side of the aeroplane, saying it was one of theirs. She'd not asked him to elaborate. But the conversation had turned to what was going on in the wider world, and what consequences it might have for the village and for them. For Ned, especially.

That was before. Before they had truly started courting, before they'd truly fallen in love, before they had decided they were going to throw their lot in together. Now those consequences, once just a topic for abstract conversation, had become frighteningly concrete. Instead of a wedding gown, she now envisioned widow's weeds, a black veil. And instead of a happy, loving domestic scene, she saw herself in a cold, dark parlor, alone.

"What about me?" Anne asked, the words out of her mouth before she could stop herself. The vision that had flashed in her mind had upset her. She'd not thought, but rather let her emotions speak. Immediately she regretted how selfish and childish her words were. But Ned just tilted his head to one side, regarding her.

"Hm, yes, that is an idea," he said, straightening his spectacles. "You could certainly try enlisting. You're a little on the small side, but I know you have good aim. Say, perhaps you could be a tank gunner! Come with me tomorrow, we'll inquire about open positions."

His face was serious, but his eyes were twinkling behind his glasses. Appalled, she stared at him.

"I don't see how you can joke, not now," she said softly, shaking her head. "Not at a time such as this."

"How can one not?" he said, grinning and giving her shoulder a squeeze. "It seems to me that that's _all _one can do, at a time such as this."

Anne, despite her fear and worry, smiled affectionately. That was her Ned, optimistic and bouyant, ever reminding her not to be _too _terribly serious. Oh, she loved him so. She reached up and put her arms around his neck. Ned shifted a bit, twining his other arm around her waist. Not caring that they were in full view of the house, and unsure of how many more opportunities like this they might have, Anne tilted up her face. Ned took his cue, leaning down and pressing his mouth against hers.

"Will you wait for me?" Ned whispered, resting his forehead against hers. Then he chuckled a little. "Listen to me, I sound like the hero in one of those 'true life' stories they print up in magazines."

"Mary likes those," Anne murmured, picturing the pile of such magazines that Mary always kept in the parlor and in her room. "I'm afraid I'm not sure I'm quite cut out to be the heroine from one." Ned chuckled again.

"Just maintain a certain melancholy bravery," he told her, "and you'll be fine. Though a little fainting probably wouldn't hurt."

"Yes," she said, holding him more tightly, and putting her mouth close to his, almost so that they were sharing the same breath. "I should weep openly once or twice, too."

They held each other close, now cheek to cheek. Just like all those times they'd sat under that huge oak tree. Gently, Ned pulled away a little. He was looking at her in a deep way, the way he'd looked at her when he'd proposed.

"You didn't answer me," he said. "Will you?"

Anne closed her eyes for a moment, seeing that bright parlor in her mind's eye. Seeing a little black wreath on a door. She opened her eyes and found him still looking at her. As with the first time their eyes had met at the dinner table, Anne felt..._sure_. Way down deep inside of herself. She put her hand to his face, running her thumb along his cheek.

"I don't think I want to wait," she told him. For a second Ned's face fell, and he quickly scanned her eyes. But then, he seemed to understand her meaning, his face brightening again.

"You're...sure?" he asked slowly, pulling her ever so slightly closer. Anne caressed his cheek again.

"Do you want to wait?" she asked in return, smiling a little when Ned leaned his face down to hers again.

"No," he replied, the word rather lost in the deep kiss that followed.

As they sat together on the bench, pressing close and kissing in broad daylight, without cover of the wood, Anne felt an odd little twinge of guilt somewhere in the back of her mind. Not all of her reasons for not wanting to wait to marry Ned were noble ones. Somehow she was certain the same could be said for Ned.

"What impropriety is _this?_"

At the sound of that voice, Anne jumped, her blood going cold enough to cool her ardor immediately. Her heart stopped and started a few times before it decided it was safe to beat normally again. Quickly she put some distance between herself and Ned on the bench. When she looked up, she saw Mary standing by one of the lilac bushes, grinning at her.

It had been so long since she'd heard it, she'd forgotten how dead-on Mary's impression of Grandmother Everglot was. She'd also forgotten what a cheeky little thing her baby sister could be. Still grinning, Mary trotted over to them.

"Oh my," said Ned, standing as she approached. "That's brilliant. Terrifying, but brilliant."

"Thanks!" said Mary brightly. "Mother says lunch is served."

"Oh, of course, thank you," said Anne, embarrassed now that she'd got over her initial shock. She tried without much success to smooth her rather rumpled blouse. Mary, that same cheeky look on her face, crossed her arms over her chest and glanced back and forth between Anne and Ned.

"Mother also says you shouldn't do that sort of thing in the garden where anybody can see you," she told them, clearly enjoying it immensely when Ned flushed and looked at his feet. "Engaged or not. Especially not when Father's due home. We could see you from the parlor window."

"Thank you, Mary," Anne said, cheeks burning and wanting nothing more than for the earth to swallow her up. Mary smiled widely, then turned and began making her way back to the house.

Sheepish now, Ned and Anne looked at each other.

"Sorry," he told her, offering his arm. "Shall we?"

As they made their way up to the house behind Mary, Anne was thinking. About how to break all of this to her parents. Ned being called up. The choice she had made. She didn't want to be a tragic young betrothed girl, pining away in her parents' house and doing nothing but waiting for a day that might never come. No.

Anne wanted to be a wife, if only for a few days. She could have a few precious days with her husband, and then he'd go. But he'd go knowing that he had a wife at home, who would keep the fireplace lit, and have his house cozy and ready for when he came home. Because Ogdred Weary _would _come home. She needed to believe that, to take a lesson from Ned and find a bright side, to be optimistic.

Her parents might not like it. Her grandparents would most definitely not like it. The villagers might gossip. But all the same, Anne had decided. She knew what she wanted, what Ned wanted. So the two of them would do what they felt they needed to.

_And damn the torpedoes, _said a little voice in her mind. It sounded, strangely enough, like Mother.


	24. Life Goes On

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty-Two

Lydia closed her office door behind her, shutting out the hum of activity on the office floor. It was Friday, accounting day. She needed to concentrate. Particularly because the accounting was all on her today. Ned had taken the day off. Understandably.

With the door shut the office was much warmer. Even the open window behind her wasn't much help. Lydia could not remember a May as warm as this one. She unbuttoned the cuffs of her shirtwaist blouse and rolled the sleeves up to almost her elbows. It was much too heavy for this weather. She'd only worn it because the sleeves were long, and would hide her wrists.

Lydia held out her arms in front of her, and grimaced. Her wrists had ugly purple bruises all over them. Finger-shaped bruises. They stood out all too clearly against her milk-pale skin. While she did not wish for Sir Ralph to be killed when he reached the front, she did find herself hoping that he would be shot in an unfortunate place. Or perhaps captured. Or wracked with dysentery and trench foot.

Sir Ralph would be leaving the same day as Ned. Monday. Much sooner than they'd thought. As ordered, Ned had presented himself yesterday to the local authorities—who, much to the elderly Pastor Galswells' dismay, had used the church for lack of a better inspection station—and had been declared fit and healthy and prime for target practice on the Eastern Front.

He and Anne would only have one full day together, after they were married. The thought made Lydia faintly sick. She looked at the empty chair across the desk. Every Friday for a year he'd sat just there.

She might never see him again. Weary, with his easy laugh, his kindness, his youthful air. He might as well be her brother. Lydia, though she would never admit it aloud, had thought of him as her brother for the better part of the past year. She was glad that he and Anne were marrying. They loved each other so. Anne would make sure he had a house and family to come back to, and Lydia would make sure he had a job. And a raise, as Lydia wanted her sister to be comfortable.

He'd be back to fill that chair. Lydia swallowed again, and nodded at the chair as though making a pact with it.

Just as she'd opened the ledger and set to work, there was a knock at the door. Before Lydia could say "come in," Mr. Van Schelven came in. He didn't bother to shut the door behind him.

"Have you a moment?" he asked, helping himself to a seat in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk.

"Of course," Lydia replied, hurriedly pulling her sleeves back down to cover her wrists. Buttoning her cuffs again, she asked, "What for?"

"I wanted to tell you that I've just met again with the trustees, and you're all clear to set off with me on Monday," Mr. Van Schelven said. "Good news, yes?"

Mouth agape, Lydia stared. Mr. Van Schelven stared back, eyebrows raised. Plainly he'd been expecting a different reaction. He continued to watch her as, fish-like, she opened and closed her mouth a few times.

"I'm...you...I'm what?" she managed to ask, absolutely positive she had just hallucinated. "I'm sorry...could you...could you say again what you just said? I think I misheard."

Mr. Van Schelven leaned forward, elbows on his knees, just a hint of amusement now evident in his face. "You're joining me on the acquisitions trip. You might have heard about it, as it's all we've been working on for a week. Not to mention the fact that it was your idea."

Still a bit too shocked to process this, Lydia thought back to precisely a week ago, when she'd sat just where she was now, Grandad in the chair Mr. Van Schelven was currently occupying. So excited, so proud of herself, only to have her hopes and expectations dashed. She didn't want that to happen again. She would not allow herself to get too excited.

"But Grandad said I wasn't to go," she finally said. Just too late she realized that she shouldn't call Grandad "Grandad" when talking to his second in command. But Mr. Van Schelven waved a hand dismissively, apparently not noticing her slip.

"But your father says you can," he told her, leaning back in his chair. "Demanded that you go, actually, when he met with me yesterday. Politely, of course, but...I've never heard him step up and _demand_ anything before...Not that he needed to convince me. The elder Mr. Van Dort came around soon enough."

Lydia put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes traveled to the portrait of her parents on the far wall. From the frame they smiled at her, their eyes kind. She ran her fingers along her wrist, remembering the look on her father's face the day before. So that's why he wanted to meet with Mr. Van Schelven. So this had been his idea. Lydia looked at her father there in the portrait, feeling a rush of affection. He cared about what she wanted. And even after how she'd treated him for so long, he still loved her, and wanted her to be happy. Lydia had to pinch herself on the thigh under the desk to keep from tearing up.

"No one mentioned this to you?" Mr. Van Schelven asked, rapping his knuckles on the armrest of his chair. Still too overcome to speak, and not wanting to make an even bigger fool of herself, Lydia just shook her head.

"Hm. Well, surprise, then," he told her, and added, "There's one more thing, though. You need a chaperone. Your mother insisted on it."

_Mother knew? And approved? _Lydia had been shocked enough two nights ago, when Mother had outright said she approved of Lydia working. But this, a trip that would last weeks, on a train and in lodgings with a man, even with a chaperone, conducting business. Now she was utterly floored, hadn't any idea what to think. Except, of course, that her mother was the very kindest and best woman she'd ever met. Lydia pinched herself again.

"A lady's maid would probably do, I've no idea. I suggested Bernard, but apparently that's not the same thing. I take it there's a maid at your house that could do with a promotion?" Mr. Van Schelven was saying. Lydia shook her head a little, turning away from the portrait and facing him.

"Who? Alice?" she asked. He shrugged, pulling a bit of a face.

"How the hell would I know?" he asked in return. Lydia, despite herself, blinked at his language. Seeing her reaction, Mr. Van Schelven gave a short laugh.

"Get used to that," he told her. "As far as I'm concerned you're a partner on this trip, so you'll be treated accordingly—no kid gloves or special treatment or coats over puddles or anything like that. We're going to work."

"I want to work," she replied. She raised her chin so that she could better look down at him. "And I'm going to do a damn good job, too." Much to her pleasure, the curse word came out as though she used it all the time. Even more to her pleasure, Mr. Van Schelven just nodded approvingly.

"That's settled, then," he said as he stood, Lydia doing the same. He put his hand out, and Lydia shook it. His grip was strong, and she hoped hers didn't seem too weak by comparison. "We'll be leaving Monday morning, first train." Surprised, Lydia pulled her hand away.

"First train on Monday?" she repeated. That was the one Ned was taking.

Mr. Van Schelven seemed to know what she was thinking. "Yes, we'll be on the same train with the new recruits, at least part of the way. Saving resources, all that." His voice was quiet, and an awkward pause followed his words.

"Speaking of Mr. Weary," Mr. Van Schelven said, brusque again, "Why are you here? Your sister's getting married tomorrow, go home and help."

Startled, and not a little guilty, Lydia sputtered a bit. "I can't, the accounting, we need to-" But Mr. Van Schelven held up his hands.

"You work hard enough, and you'll be working harder very soon," he said. Lydia truly could have done without his very paternal tone. She preferred it when he was business-like and curt. "We've got a secretary who can do the books around here somewhere, it'll be fine. Go home and do lady-things for your sister's wedding, or you're fired."

"You can't fire me," Lydia said flatly, thinking a curse word that she most certainly wouldn't ever say aloud in his direction. She strode over to the door and took her suit jacket from its peg. Shrugging it on, she turned back to Mr. Van Schelven, who was looking up at her with that same amused expression from earlier. Now it felt condescending.

"I'm going because I want to, not because you told me to," she told him with a sniff, putting on her hat and securing it with a pin. Mr. Van Schelven crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged.

"Of course," he said mildly, following her out of the office and walking her to the outer office door. "See you at the wedding tomorrow, Miss Van Dort." Lydia nodded, and out the door she went.

Once alone in the little hall at the top of the stairs, she leaned back against the door, pressing a hand to her mouth again. She was going on a business trip. Her. Lydia Van Dort, Assistant Managing Director of Van Dort's Fish. She went ahead and chuckled to herself, and then took a deep, cleansing breath, still smiling widely. A far cry from a week ago, when she'd left work in disgrace, ready to give it all up.

Heading down the stairs and out of the shop, she sobered a little. Only a week had gone by. It seemed quite impossible. Impossible to think that, with all of the horrendous things going on in the world, she could still be conducting business. That a wedding could still happen. That there was a future to think of, and they were all counting on being there to see it.

And yet, Lydia reflected as she retrieved her bicycle from the alleyway, that was the very thing about life. It went on.

That thought in mind, Lydia hopped on her bicycle and pedaled out of the square, through the village gates, and toward home.


	25. The Bride's Trousseau

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty-Three

In her bedroom, Anne was surveying the many articles of clothing and linens laid out on her bed. It looked as though Catherine's hope chest had exploded. Anne hadn't much of a trousseau of her own. Nobody had ever really thought she'd get married. Catherine, thanks to Grandmamma, had a very respectable trousseau that she was more than happy to share. After all, Anne was the one with need of it.

Anne didn't know what she'd have done without Catherine over the past day.

As soon as Catherine had heard that the wedding was going forward with only two days' notice, it seemed she'd taken it as a personal challenge. Anne was grateful to her. Somehow Anne had thought that Catherine would just get teary at the romance of it all, Anne being a war bride and everything. Well, she _had, _but only a little and not for long. No, she'd wiped her eyes, pulled Anne into a rough hug, and told her not to bother about a thing. Catherine had not stopped moving since. Flowers, a dinner, a cake, convincing Pastor Galswells to come by the house to perform the ceremony...Anne had felt completely overwhelmed by the magnitude. Yet Catherine was thriving, throwing the biggest and most important party she ever had.

Anne wished they'd had more time. A wedding in the parlor at home suited her fine, though. Father and Mother had gotten married in Grandmamma's parlor, after all, so it wasn't unheard of. Quick, quiet, comfortable. Anne needed that comfort just now. At least her grandmothers weren't giving them too much trouble about it. They probably preferred a Van Dort marriage to an accountant to be handled as quietly as possible, without too many important people finding out about it.

Just immediate family and some friends of Ned's and Lydia's from work, gathered in the parlor. Ned's parents had passed away when he was very small, and his grandfather had taken him in. Sadly his grandfather too had died when Ned was about six or so, leaving him in the care of an aunt. So Ned didn't have much family to call on now. It was a nice thing that her family was his, now. Or would be by tomorrow afternoon.

So very soon...she needn't have worried about her parents not liking it. They understood. How could they not? Anne held a plain nightdress up to herself, thought it might fit, and put it to one side. As she began sorting through silk stockings, she replayed the conversation they'd had.

The moment Father had come home that day, the day of the conscription notice, she'd taken Ned by the hand and asked if they might speak to him and Mother before lunch. There, shut in the study, Ned had handed Father the notice.

And Anne had looked both of her parents in the eye, and, having chosen her words carefully, had said, "_Father, Mother...he and I might never see each other again."_

That's what she'd said. She knew she was being a little sneaky, a little manipulative, because she'd known precisely what would make Father and Mother see the enormity of her situation. They'd experienced it themselves, had known that same sort of pain.

Mother and Father had been sitting in the armchairs by the fireplace in the study. Anne and Ned had stood before them, arms linked. And she'd said, quietly and solemnly,_"Father, Mother...he and I might never see each other again."_

Her parents' reactions had been visible. She'd never forget it. Mother had paled, her mouth had turned down at the corners, and her eyes had gone large and sad. Father had given a little start, pressed his lips together, and looked away, his eyes just as sad as Mother's. Almost as one they moved, reaching their hands toward one another. They didn't even make eye contact as they did it, they simply moved, as though fully aware of what the other was doing. As though they were one person in two bodies. In full view of Anne and Ned, Father and Mother had held hands, linked between their respective chairs.

It was all she'd needed to say. Her parents had nodded, glanced at each other. Again moving nearly as one, they'd stood, regarding Anne and Ned.

"_Then we'd best get started, if we're to do this thing properly," _Father had said, a small, rather sad smile on his face that matched the one on Mother's. Mother had merely nodded, given Anne's hand a squeeze, and then had left the room. Anne could have sworn she saw her wiping at her eye. Father had shaken Ned's hand, then turned to her. He'd put his hands on her shoulders and, much to Anne's surprise, had kissed her forehead. And then he too had left the room.

Anne hadn't been alone with either of her parents since. In a way, that was a good thing. They could all simply work toward the wedding, and not talk about it. Their family was good at not discussing events of great magnitude. Struck, suddenly, Anne put down the peignoir she'd been considering.

The enormity of recent events crashed down on her all at once. How sudden this was, how her entire life was changing, her entire identity. How she might be a widow before she ever truly got to be a wife. Tears started to cloud her vision, but she blinked them away. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm herself.

_Father, Mother...we may never see each other again._

What did it matter? There was no one to see her. Sinking down to the floor next to her bed, Anne sobbed. She really and truly sobbed, with tears that could not be stemmed, with hitching breaths, with a running nose and very warm cheeks. Ever conscious of her family within earshot, she kept both hands pressed against her mouth so that she didn't make too much noise.

Quietly but fiercely, almost indulgently, she cried. There on the floor in her childhood room, where she'd never sleep again. Right across the hall from Mary's room, which had once been the nursery she and Lydia and Catherine had shared. So many memories, so much _life,_ in this house.

Anne cried harder when she realized she might never have the opportunity to make this kind of house for herself. She cried when she realized how badly she wanted that—to make a home like this one for herself and Ned, to have a marriage like her parents had. Anne had never quite appreciated before that she actually had dreams. They were smaller and more modest than Lydia's or Catherine's, but she had them. And now they might never be realized. The tears just kept coming.

And she understood, a little, of what her parents must have felt all those years ago, when they'd been her age and newly in love. And she understood a lot more about her. The dead bride. Emily. In a way she truly hadn't before.

Her sobs ebbing into a mere trickle of leftover tears, Anne took a handkerchief from the pile on the nightstand and mopped her eyes. As she did so she noticed that they were embroidered with Catherine's initials. That would be some work to fix. And, Anne realized as she looked over the nightgowns, peignoirs, and other satin and lace unmentionables, she'd never fill _any _of them out appropriately. But it was nice of Catherine to offer.

With a sniff and a shuddering breath, Anne pulled herself together again, wiping her eyes one last time with the now sodden handkerchief. Just like a violent summer thunderstorm, her tears had apparently cleared the air for her. Anne felt calmer, more determined, even, impossible as it seemed, excited for her wedding the next day.

That was the nice thing she could focus on. She was a bride, and her dreams hadn't been taken from her yet. And she was determined to not spend her time worrying that they would be.

With that, Anne turned to the hand-stitched tablecloths, planning her future dinner table.


	26. Something Blue

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty-Four

Unlit lamp in hand, Victoria climbed the stairs that led to the third floor. There were some things she needed to fetch from the attic for the wedding tomorrow. Thank goodness for Catherine so gamely taking the helm. Victoria, though mother of the bride, was more than happy to serve as a mere lieutenant in this venture.

Victoria went past Lydia's room, which was in a room that had been intended to be maids' quarters. A relatively small space, under the eaves, and far away from everyone else—that's where Lydia had always liked to be. The door was slightly open, and Victoria couldn't help peeking inside. Austere, neat as a pin, books everywhere. While she was in the attic she should look for Lydia's old school trunk. She'd need it for her trip. Victoria continued down the hall, a little melancholy now. She'd just got all of her children back, and now she was losing two again. One for good.

Before heading up the narrow attic stairs, Victoria lit her lamp and made certain that she had the key to the attic door. It had been a very long while since Victoria had been up in the attic. She very nearly liked it. It reminded her of her girlhood, where the attic was the one place she could be perfectly alone and unsupervised.

With a creak the attic door opened, and she stepped into the gloom. It was already stuffy up here. She held up the lamp, letting her eyes adjust to the lack of light. Though really, for an attic, it was quite airy. The huge window from the faux tower helped a lot in that regard. The trunk she wanted was just below that window.

Lamp aloft, Victoria made her way across the attic, kicking up little bits of dust as she went. Cobwebs fluttered as she moved. She was distracted for a moment when she passed the wooden cradle that all of the children had slept in. She gave it a push to make it rock gently, just for old times' sake. Had it really been fifteen years since there had been a baby in the house?

And now one of her babies was getting married. Now she understood how Hildegarde had felt, as she'd helped Victoria try on her wedding dress so many years ago. She fully appreciated the emotion behind the twittering and odd little smiles. Victoria wasn't much of a twitterer, but she felt it deeply all the same.

When she reached the trunk she knelt, setting the lamp on the windowsill and hoping it would stay balanced. With a creak and a groan, the heavy trunk lid swung back and settled against the wall with a dull thud.

This had been Victoria's hope chest. By the time she'd married there'd not been much in it, as just about her entire trousseau had gone to pawn. But now it held the evidence of at least one dream achieved. On the very top sat a small velvet box, which Victoria picked up.

"Something old," Victoria began to recite to herself, just as Hildegarde had for her so many years before. She opened the box and looked at the gold crown she'd worn on her wedding day. Both of her wedding days. Maudeline had worn it, too, according to Hildegarde. It was an Everglot heirloom. The wedding rings Anne and Ned were to wear would also count—they'd belonged to Ned's late parents. Victoria thought that was lovely.

Victoria's veil was still connected to the crown. Carefully she held it up, noticing a small tear down one side. Another thing to mend before the wedding. It wouldn't be too hard to fix. She set the crown and veil gently back into their box and set it aside.

The next layer held Victor's suits. Victoria reached in and picked up the suit coat he'd worn the day they'd met. It had seen a lot, that coat, and was deservedly a keepsake in the wedding trunk. Gently she ran her fingers across the carefully mended places on the cuff and shoulder. Mended by spiders. If nothing else, Victoria had to admire both the novelty and the fine stitching.

_If only I had a friendly spider about for that veil, _she thought with a smile, carefully re-folding the coat.

Below that coat was Victor's wedding suit, the one he'd worn when he'd married her. It was very dark gray, nearly black, and somewhere there was the gray silk ascot and waistcoat he'd worn with it. Victor had looked very handsome in it. Pity it was so out of fashion, and that it wouldn't fit Ned. Though the military had very kindly supplied Ned with a uniform already, so he would wear that. Melancholy again, Victoria set aside Victor's wedding suit.

"Something new," Victoria went on, making sure the suit didn't land in anything dusty on the floor. She set the spider-mended coat on top of it. What was new? Well, by the time Victoria mended the veil, that would be good as new. Surely that counted.

"Something borrowed," Victoria murmured, coming to the bottom of the trunk. Reaching in and moving aside garment wrapping that had yellowed with age, she pulled out the bodice to her wedding gown.

Standing, Victoria held it up to the meager light and eyed it critically. It had stayed miraculously white, for not being in its own box. She'd forgotten how heavy it was. Had she really worn dresses like that all the time? She turned the bodice around, looking for holes or stains. There didn't seem to be any. She held it up against herself, and ran a hand down the buttons, making sure they were all there. Goodness, her waist had been tiny, once upon a time, thanks mostly to her corset.

Her wedding dress would fit Anne like a glove.

When she pulled the heavy skirt out of the trunk and gave it an experimental shake, something fell off. Something small and blue, she'd seen it distinctly, even with her poor eyes and the bad light. She carefully set aside her wedding gown, next to Victor's old suit, and searched the floor until she found the tiny thing that had been attached to the dress.

It was a blue flower. From Emily's bouquet. A few flowers must have come loose at some point, or perhaps been stuck to her wedding dress. Gently, Victoria cupped the flower in her hand, standing by the window so that she could look at it more clearly. It was a rosebud, the dusty blue petals just barely clinging together.

For years Victoria had kept that bouquet, wrapped first in paper and then in silk, in a drawer in her wardrobe. Finally, just a few springs ago, Victoria had gone to clean out the drawer. When she'd moved the bouquet, the whole thing had finally fallen apart.

_And to dust you shall return_, Victoria had found herself rather morbidly thinking when several of the desiccated flowers had done just that under her hand. She'd managed to salvage a few of the rosebuds, as well as several tufts of baby's breath. Those she now kept in a small china box on her vanity table.

Even as unrecognizable blue dust, Victoria had been unable to bear the thought of throwing any part of the bouquet away. Difficult as her relationship with the corpse bride's memory had been over the years, to varying degrees at various points in her life, she'd never once blamed her, nor hated her. How could she fault her for wanting love, a future? For wanting some echo of life un-lived back? No, Victoria had never hated nor blamed her. Nor ever once thought about parting with the flowers, the tangible proof of Emily's story and existence.

Victoria hadn't wanted a new wedding band, either. For twenty-six years she'd worn the ring that had been on a dead woman's finger. It was hers, after all. And more than that, it was a reminder to make her life worthwhile, and to never, ever, take love for granted.

"Something blue," she murmured to herself, cradling the rosebud gently in her palm.


	27. The Father of the Bride

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty-Five

Late that same evening, Victor sat in one of the armchairs near the fireplace in the study. There was no fire, as the evening had stayed warm—warm enough for him to sit in his shirtsleeves, tie loosened. The only light came from the oil lamps on the mantel. He held an open photo album in his lap.

He was just the tiniest bit drunk.

Victor very rarely imbibed, and it probably would have been a good idea to stop after one snifter of brandy. He'd spent the evening with Ned, at Ned's tiny old house in the village. Victor had rather wanted to have a look at where his daughter would be living. It was a bit shabby, really, in Victor's private opinion, but he was sure Anne would be too happy there to care. After the second round of brandy, it had seemed a lot nicer. Cozy.

They'd had a nice time. It was, actually, the first time he'd ever socialized one-on-one with a fellow. It was good to drink and chat and discuss local wildlife—Victor had been very pleased to learn that Ned had an amateur interest in birds. Yes, Anne would be happy there, with Ned Weary. Hard to believe that only a few nights ago, Victor had very fleetingly wanted to strangle him. Victor, enjoying Ned's liquor and company, had felt the urge to apologize, but had decided that might have been a bit too awkward.

Slowly he turned the pages of the album over, taking his time with each carefully mounted photograph. The children had made the album as a twentieth wedding anniversary gift for him and Victoria. They'd prowled about the house, and their grandparents' houses, for photographs to fill it with. There'd not been many, so the last third or so of the album was only blank pages.

Victor decided he would add Anne and Ned's wedding portrait to one of the blank pages. He thought it would be fitting. A testament to his sincere wish that Ned would come home quickly and safely, and would be able to get down to the business of making Anne happy for the rest of her life. A happy marriage, like his and Victoria's, that's what he wanted the two of them to have.

_Speaking of, _he thought with a grin, flipping the page to find a photograph of himself and Victoria on their first wedding anniversary. They looked so young, so impossibly young, especially Victoria. Nell had thrown them a lavish, overwhelming party, and they'd shown up late. The moment they'd walked in the door Nell had practically shoved them toward the hired photographer to have a commemorative portrait done.

While the photograph only showed shades of gray, Victor remembered that Victoria's gown had been a deep, dark red. He'd worn a cravat in the same color. Leaning forward, he squinted at his younger self. Yes, there it was, that diamond cravat pin. Squinting again, he studied Victoria, in her daring evening dress—not only the color, but the sleeves that left her arms bare from the elbow down. Maudeline had been so scandalized and made such a fuss that Victoria had finally given in and put on a pair of long evening gloves borrowed from Nell. Victor chuckled a bit at the memory.

Pausing in turning the pages, he reached over and took a sip of his third brandy of the evening. After he'd come home to find everyone else still occupied with preparations for the wedding, he'd headed for the study. Even sober he'd be of little help arranging flowers in the parlor with Mary or sorting through clothes with Catherine. And even the thought of helping Anne get ready to leave made him morose.

So the study it was, where he'd made the questionable decision that another drink wouldn't hurt—he was father of the bride, after all. Victor hardly ever kept any drink in the house. This bottle had been a gift. George Van Schelven had presented it to him on behalf of all the employees at the cannery after their meeting the other day. Van Schelven had offered a handshake and an amiable, _"Mazel tov, Reb Teyve!", _which Victor hadn't found funny. Still, he'd smiled and taken the gift anyway. It was a nice gesture.

Brandy coursing warmly down his throat, Victor had to wonder how good an idea it had been to say it was all right for Lydia to go traveling all over with Van Schelven. Business or no, chaperoned or not. Though Lydia didn't really seem all that interested in men. And even if she were, Van Schelven was his age. Older, actually, by two years. The very idea that anything untoward would happen, given Lydia's disposition and Van Schelven's businesslike manner, was laughable.

Victor so wanted her to be happy, to do what pleased her, no matter what. And, selfishly, he'd wanted to do something to make her like him again. It might have already worked. Lydia had given him a hug when she'd come home from work today.

Honestly, a hug. Victor was still reeling over it, but in a nice way. He'd been in the parlor with Mr. Reed, rearranging furniture and setting up a table to act as an altar. Victor had turned to find Lydia standing in front of him. Before he could ask whether Van Schelven had spoken with her, she'd smiled, stepped forward, and wrapped her arms around his neck. For a moment he'd been too shocked to remember to hug her back. But hug her back he had, and was still warmed by the memory of it.

"It will all be fine," he assured himself, setting the snifter back on the table with finality. He turned over another page, into the studio portraits of the older girls, now. Lydia could be trusted. She wasn't flighty or fond of presents and attention...like...

"Oh, Catherine," he sighed, studying her portrait in the album. Such a very pretty girl. He was always surprised to notice. No wonder gentlemen just seemed to naturally flock to her. She'd been about sixteen when this was taken, but didn't look too much different from the way she did now. At sixteen she'd just started to go to costume balls, dinner parties, teas. Had just started to draw the attention of suitors.

Besides her good looks, there was her charm, her humor, her cheer. It just came to her naturally, that exuberance. It always seemed somehow unnatural in the village. Perfectly normal in the privacy of their home, where Victor and Victoria had found and cultivated a bit of freedom for themselves and the children, but Catherine seemed too bright to exist here. Somehow...other. That other-ness of hers was why, along with her rather carefree manner with men, he'd always worried she'd be the one to take any ticket out of the village.

Especially a ticket connected to a man who told her he loved her. Catherine was very romantic. Victor reached for the snifter again.

It was hard to look at Catherine, to be around her, and not think of Emily. Not in an off-color way, merely a nostalgic and affectionate one. Funny, though, how those thoughts of Emily had turned oddly paternal over the years. Or perhaps not so funny. After all, if he were to accidentally marry her now, forty-five with thinning hair and a slight paunch, it was unlikely that she'd naturally assume he was her true love. She'd probably ask for an annulment. Well, pocket-money, first, and _then _an annulment.

He looked at the facing page. The next photo was a lovely one of Anne. The notation under it said that she was twelve. He looked back and forth, from Catherine's confident beam to Anne's shy, tiny smile. And he thought of how differently things had turned out from the way he'd always imagined they would.

For all of the worrying he'd done over Catherine, he'd never thought of reining her in. Of denying her anything. She might remind him a lot of Emily, but Victor had to keep reminding himself that they were not the same person. And, also, the fact that Victoria was her mother. That counted for a lot.

Victor nodded to himself, feeling very sage and wise through his inebriated haze. Or perhaps because of it. He rewarded his insight into his family's dynamics and his daughter's personality by draining the last of his brandy, and then turned the page.

There was a thirteen-year-old Lydia gazing out at him. But for her long hair, newly worn up when this photograph had been taken, she was identical to Victor at about the same age. And except for the look in her eyes. None of Victor's perpetual worry was there. Even at thirteen, she'd positively radiated self-confidence.

He remembered the day he and Nell had taken her to have that portrait done. It had been the beginning of a bad week. The very day after she'd sat for this photograph, Lydia had found the old family cat, Boisduval, dead in his little basket in the parlor. It was the childrens' first dealing with death. Shortly afterward, Victor and Victoria had decided the time had come to tell the children about the Land of the Dead, and about Emily. And shortly after _that_...

Victor shifted in his chair uncomfortably. Suddenly Lydia's expression in the photograph seemed to take on a new cast. Her gaze became a glare, her confidence became accusation. He heard her voice clearly in his head, coming to him across the expanse of memory.

..._"How could you do that to Mother? How __**could **__you?__ I am never going to forgive you...maybe Mother could, but I can't..."_

Brandy was breaking down his memory's usual defenses, helping to bridge the gap between the present and ten years ago. Victor touched his firstborn's face in the photograph, tracing the jawline that was identical to his own. With difficulty he swallowed, unsure if his sudden queasiness was due to painful memories or to all the liquor he'd consumed tonight.

"_...And to give me that name!...Why do you __**want**__ to remember her?..."_

Quickly Victor flipped the page, hoping it would silence the ghost of Lydia's thirteen-year-old self. He didn't want to hear it all again. Once had been more than enough. He'd rather remember her hug.

He'd come to the end. The last photograph. It was a family portrait that had originally been kept on the desk here in the study. Mary, nine years old and sneaky, had nicked it to put in the album, and left him to be appalled at its sudden absence and to spend two days wondering whether he was losing his mind.

He'd kept it on his desk because he loved it so much. A few times he'd been tempted to remove it from the album and put it back where he could see it all the time. Just looking at it now settled his mind and stomach, filling him with warmth. He tilted the album to better catch the light from the lamp, knocking the empty brandy snifter with the album's corner as he did so.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry," he slurred politely to the snifter, clumsily catching it before it fell over. With as much care as he could manage at present he moved it to the far side of the end table. When he was reasonably sure it wasn't going anywhere (or were there two? For a moment it had looked as though there were two of them), he went back to the photo.

There was no date under this one, but Victor knew. They'd had it taken on Mary's first birthday. Not only were they celebrating Mary's first year of life, they'd been celebrating that Victoria was still with them. She'd been very ill after Mary had been born, dangerously so. It had been a terrifying time for their household. But when the photograph was taken, Victoria was almost completely herself again. That was the reason, beyond the fact that it contained those he held dearest, that Victor treasured this particular photograph.

In the photo, Victoria was sitting on a loveseat, pale and thin but bravely smiling. Victor sat next to her, a protective and affectionate hand on her arm. He'd spent most of the first year of Mary's life worried that he might lose her, and the feeling had taken a long time to wear off. His smile, though genuine, was guarded. He'd also had a lot more hair. Mary, still a tiny thing in a white cap and little white dress, was snug in Victoria's lap. The other children stood behind them in a row, Lydia in the middle. Victor recalled how the photographer had had Catherine and Anne stand on boxes so that the composition wasn't spoiled due to Lydia's height. Even then, they were all three smiling, pretty and perfect, in matching white dresses. That they were a family was clear. That they loved one another was evident. Even though Mary seemed to be asleep. Victor truly loved this photograph.

"I made most of these people," he murmured to himself, running his hand over the photograph. It seemed, somehow, a profound statement. With a nod and a sigh, he closed the album and held it on his lap, pondering the incredible fact that he and Victoria had created so much life.

It was late. Victor leaned his head back, comfortable and still pleasantly drunk. When the room began to spin a little, he closed his eyes and waited for it to pass.

0—0

Victor stood, confused, at the threshold of the church. He'd thought they'd agreed to have the wedding at the house. As ever, he must have missed something.

Though why was it dark? The wedding was supposed to be in the early afternoon. But here they were, the interior of the church bathed in moonlight. The moon, huge and full, was visible over the trees.

_Oh no, I'm late!_ Victor thought, seeing Anne and Ned at the altar, backs to him. How had he missed walking his own daughter down the aisle? He hurried forward, meaning to find Victoria up in the front pew, and apologize.

He was halfway down the aisle when he realized something was not quite right. The light seemed wrong. Otherworldly. And cold. It was cold in here. Taking a closer look around, he saw that the pews were nearly full. Everyone seemed shadowy, he couldn't make out faces. None were turned toward him, anyway—all eyes were front, toward the couple at the altar.

And that was not Pastor Galswells on the other side of the altar. It was someone Victor thought he wouldn't see until his dying day.

"Elder Gutknecht?" he asked, less confused than he probably should be. Somehow Victor was already there, at the altar, right behind Anne and Ned. He didn't remember walking the rest of the way.

"Hello, my boy," said the skeleton, looking up at him. "Pleasure to see you again. Are you giving away the bride?"

"Yes?" Victor replied, hesitant, unsure of what to do. Anne stood there, in a lacy white dress and an elaborate veil, her pale face almost glowing in the moonlight that was somehow everywhere, lighting everything. Ned, beside her, was in his uniform. Together, they turned around and faced Victor.

Ned smiled, his expression pleasant. But he was...he was blue. Victor gasped, noticing what he had not before. Ned had a gaping hole right through his chest. Shredded organs and shattered bones framed the view through to his back, ragged bits of gore clinging to shreds of his uniform. There were flecks of dried blood on his glasses. He'd not been dead long.

"Oh," Victor said. "I'm sorry." Ned shrugged, that same smile on his face.

"It's all right," he said. His voice sounded odd, echoey, somehow distorted. "Really, I feel just fine. Better than fine." He looked over at Anne, and Victor followed suit.

Anne had changed her clothes. Victor was sure that she'd been wearing white a moment ago. But now, he saw, both dress and veil had gone black. And somehow a goblet and a pair of candles had materialized before Elder Gutknecht on the table.

"I told them you would be here soon," Anne said, her voice soft and with that same echoing quality Ned's had had.

"Anne," Victor began, but was interrupted by a very familiar voice, one he'd not heard in years, and thought he'd never hear again.

"Victor, darling," said Emily from behind him.

"Emily?" he asked. He'd not noticed her there. He saw that she was sitting next to Victoria in the front pew. Both of them were smiling. As though this were the most natural thing in the world.

"Victoria?" he said. He took a step toward them. "What's going on?"

"Your daughter's wedding, silly," Emily told him, a giggle in her voice. "Now come sit down so Elder Gutknecht can continue." She reached over Victoria to pat the empty space on the pew.

"It's just time for the wine," Victoria added. "Sit down, Victor."

But Victor did not sit. Dread was creeping up on him. Somehow he knew that the goblet did not hold ordinary wine. As though in slow motion, Anne, still beaming at Ned, reached for the goblet.

"No," he said, taking a step forward. Victoria's hand on his arm stopped him. He looked down at her, horrified to find that she was still smiling that placid smile. Completely unbothered. And Emily. He stared at her next, willing her to speak up as she had at their wedding, to say that this was wrong. But Emily only smiled, and linked her arm through Victoria's.

"No," Victor repeated. "No, we have to stop her, this is wrong."

"Now Victor, darling," Emily said kindly, "you mustn't be a hypocrite."

"We want her to be happy, don't we?" added Victoria.

As one Victoria and Emily smiled at him, and turned their attention back to the couple at the altar. Anne had the goblet to her mouth.

"No!" Victor cried, holding out a hand. Or perhaps he only thought it. He wasn't sure. And he couldn't move, he seemed frozen there, horrified, able to do nothing but watch as Anne drank the poison in one swallow.

The entire scene seemed to go darker, to twist sideways. Almost in one movement Victor was at Anne's side, just in time to catch her as she started to sink to the ground. He sank down with her, cradling her half on his lap on the stone floor. The empty goblet fell from her limp hand, landed with a faint clatter, and rolled away.

Desperate for help, Victor looked frantically around the church. But everyone was gone, as though they'd simply vanished. Even the pews were gone, somehow. He was alone, the church dark but for the moonlight, his dead daughter in his lap.

Surely she'd get up again, if only briefly, only to say goodbye and walk away to join the rest of the dead. Isn't that what was supposed to happen? Still cradling her, he shifted her so that he could look into her face. What he saw made him gasp in shock and horror. Inside, he was screaming. Inside, every bit of him was screaming a scream of sadness, grief, and revulsion.

Anne was not there. He was cradling a skeleton. An unmoving, unresponsive skeleton. Victor held her more tightly, his fingers pressing hard enough to feel hard edges of bone beneath her dress.

All trace of her was gone. His daughter, his Anne, was nothing but a collection of bones swaddled in a black dress. She'd not gone blue, she'd not become a jovial member of the ranks of the dead. She wasn't even a walking skeleton. Anne was nothing but dry bones inside her widow's weeds. Empty eye sockets. No hair.

Even as he held her, or what was lately her, the bones began to shift, to dissolve. He tried adjusting his hold, tried talking soothing nonsense the way he had all those times when she'd been little and sick in bed, he tried stroking where her hair would be, if she had any. But it seemed the more he touched her the more quickly she disintegrated. Until, finally, he was sitting alone in the dark church, clutching a black dress filled with dust.

0—0

With a jerk and a snort, Victor came awake. Heart slamming, mouth dry and tacky, he sat bolt upright in his chair.

He was still in his chair in the study. The album had slid off his lap onto the floor, the lamps had burned nearly all the way down. Sitting back, Victor wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Taking slow, deep breaths, he waited for his heartbeat to resume a normal pace.

"Oh," he said to the empty room. His voice was croaky, his throat dry. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to get rid of what he'd seen in his nightmare. "Oh, that was terrible."

Slowly the mood of the dream left him. But he couldn't get rid of the horrible, vivid images. And Emily's voice, telling him he mustn't be a hypocrite...Victoria's, saying how this was how Anne would be happy...Victor shook his head, his face buried in his hands.

There was no way. No matter what might happen to Ned, Anne would never. She couldn't.

_Why not? _asked a little voice in the back of his mind. _Wouldn't you? _

Bile rose up the back of his throat, and for a moment Victor was sure he was going to be sick. His pulse was throbbing behind his eyes. Impossible as it seemed, he still felt as though he could feel Anne's dead weight in his arms.

_She's not dead,_ he told himself. _She's safe in bed, upstairs. Tomorrow is her wedding day. She's happy. And she'd never choose that path._

How desperately he needed to believe that.

Due to the after-effects of both his nightmare and all the brandy, it took him a clumsy while to get up the stairs, into his bedroom, and then into his pajamas. He was never going to drink again. Or let his daughter get married. Both seemed to cause mental and emotional problems, particularly when taken together.

Aware that Victoria was probably deeply asleep by now, he tried to be as quiet as he could opening the adjoining door between their rooms, and he tried to be stealthy about lifting the covers and sliding into bed next to her. He felt guilty when he felt her stir.

"Hello," she murmured sleepily, turning over so that she was facing him. She'd not opened her eyes. "Did you have a nice evening?"

"Mostly," he replied softly, recalling his dream. Even though it was receding, becoming hazy, the sorrow and fear of his dream-self seemed to be clinging on. He was in desperate need of some comfort, but he didn't want to burden Victoria with the details of his ghastly dream. As mother of the bride, she had plenty to be getting on with already.

So instead, rather impulsively, he settled for putting an arm over Victoria and cuddling himself close next to her. Instead of protesting, as he somehow thought she might, given the hour, she put an arm around him and held him. One hand found its comforting way into his hair.

Snug, close, under the covers of the bed he'd shared with her for twenty-six years, Victor held Victoria even more tightly. He let himself relax, molding himself to her side. By scrunching and adjusting a bit, he was able to rest his cheek against her bosom. Victoria was always warm and soft and comforting. She smelled of lavender and soap, just as she always did. He could feel and hear her heartbeat. For a long moment he simply enjoyed the comforting sound and the comforting warmth, as well as the reassuring and rhythmic feel of her hand running through his hair.

If that photograph was their family, Victor reflected, then this, here, was their marriage. He couldn't think of a more fitting illustration.

Slightly less troubled now, he listened as Victoria's breathing became deep and even. Eventually her hand stopped moving through his hair. When it did, Victor took it and held it for a moment.

The other night, he'd been fondly recalling the wedding the dead had thrown for him and Emily. And he had hoped Anne's would be like that—passionate, fun, a celebration. But he hoped her actual marriage would be like this, what he and Victoria had together.

If he'd learned one thing over the years, it was the difference between a wedding and a marriage, the difference between a bride and a wife. The difference between a groom and a husband.

That thought in mind, Victor slipped into sleep again, hoping his rest would be dreamless.


	28. Jasmine and Roses

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty-Six

_An hour from now, _Anne thought as she stared at herself in the mirror on Mother's vanity, _I'll be married._

For a bride-to-be, she felt curiously flat. Happy, but a quiet sort. No giddiness or nervous fits, as she'd had a few nights ago at the dinner party. Had that really only been a few nights ago? It seemed remarkable. Impossible.

Anne studied her reflection. Since most of her own things were already packed and on their way to Ned's house, she was wearing Mother's lacy dressing gown over her underthings. Sitting at Mother's vanity table, in Mother's dressing gown, wearing her hair the way Mother always did, Anne felt the queerest sense of deja vu. Many times when they were little, she and Catherine had played at dress-up with Mother's things—sitting at the vanity and playing with her hats, trying on her shoes and wraps. The memory made Anne want to chuckle and cry at the same time.

_No play-acting now, _she thought, feeling that same odd sense of unreality. _I'm a grown woman._

That thought was scary in a way Anne couldn't quite explain, and her heart gave a little jump. After a moment she smoothed down her hair with her hands. Catherine, who certainly _was _on the giddy excitable side today, had taken a break from her last-minute preparations to help her put it up. Just a simple bun, that was all, so that she could wear the Everglot wedding crown.

The crown sat in its velvet box atop the vanity table, ready and waiting. Next to it was Anne's bridal bouquet, which Mary had spent hours yesterday making. Anne thought it was very pretty—it was mostly Mother's prized Alba roses, but there was some pink phlox dotted here and there. Instead of tying it with ribbon, Mary had used ivy. The effect was pleasing, a reflection of Mother's flower garden. Mother's wedding gown was hung on the inside of the open door of the wardrobe across the room.

Mother had been quiet this morning, too, but she didn't seem unhappy. More thoughtful, almost, which was likely to be expected. Just a few minutes ago she'd helped Anne into her old corset, lacing it almost too tightly for comfort. Hearing Anne gasp, Mother had apologetically told her that the gown simply wouldn't look right without the old-fashioned corset underneath it. Anne could make do. It was only for the ceremony.

Though she wished she'd thought to put her wedding boots on first. Wearing the stiff old corset so tightly laced, Anne couldn't bend over to button them up. Added to that were what felt like thirty pounds worth of petticoat to negotiate—it was difficult to tell where her feet even were. Oh well. Mother would be back from her last-minute check of preparations downstairs soon.

Anne took as deep a breath as she could manage, and let it out slowly. The clock on the mantel ticked. Suddenly there was a quiet knock on the slightly open bedroom door.

"Good morning," Father said, putting his head round the door. "Or afternoon, I suppose."

"Hello," Anne replied, happy to see him. It was the first she'd seen him all day.

"I'm not disturbing you?" Father asked as he took a tentative step into the room.

"No," she replied with a smile. Returning it, Father came in and took a seat on the little upholstered bench that sat at the foot of Mother's bed. Anne turned herself around on the vanity's little stool so that she was facing him, careful not to snag the dressing gown or petticoats as she did so.

Father was already dressed, in his nice dark morning suit, a little bunch of myrtle tied with a ribbon on his lapel. Anne thought again how Mary had done a lovely, if slightly eclectic, job with the flowers. He looked handsome, if a little tired and bleary. She knew he'd spent last night with Ned, and had been eager to hear how their visit had been, but wasn't quite sure how to ask. It seemed like a man-to-man sort of affair that really wasn't her business.

What she did know had come from Mary when she'd come in this morning to give Anne her bouquet. Mary had been up late decorating the parlor the night before, and Father had come home quite late. Seeing her in the parlor, he'd stopped in to say goodnight. He'd accidentally stepped on the lilacs Mary had put aside on the floor. Apologizing, he'd said how nice the parlor looked, had given her a rather clumsy one-armed hug, and then gone off to the study.

"He smelled like Grandad does on Christmas Day," Mary had told her as she'd handed her the bouquet. Anne could only wonder how Ned was faring.

"Well!" Father said now, sounding and looking rather cheery and none the worse for wear. He looked around the room. His eyes traveled from her to the bouquet on the vanity, and then over at Mother's wedding gown. His expression seemed to soften a bit, and his eyes took on a sort of far away look as he regarded the wedding dress. With one hand he reached up and absentmindedly fiddled at the knot in his tie.

"Well," he tried again, looking back to her. Silently they looked at each other. Again, Anne felt that odd urge to laugh over the lump starting to form in her throat. Somehow she felt Father was feeling the same.

"I-I've...I haven't any idea what to say," Father finally told her lamely. When Anne laughed a little, quietly, he joined in. For another long moment they simply regarded one another. As far as Anne was concerned, Father didn't really need to say anything. His look said enough.

"That's all right," Anne assured him. Father smiled at her, and then reached into his inner jacket pocket.

"I have a little gift for you," he said, taking what looked like a small, flat jewel-box out of his pocket. He stood and came over to join her at the vanity, holding out the box to her. Anne looked up at him.

"You didn't need to do that," she told him, taking the box, pleased all the same. Father shrugged.

"I wanted to," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's just a little something. For luck."

Wondering, Anne opened the box. Inside lay one of Father's tie pins, a pretty silver one with a little carved design on one end. Looking more closely, she saw that the design was actually the Van Dort crest in miniature. Father had tied a sprig of jasmine to the tie-pin with a white ribbon. Anne took the pin with the flower on it gently from its box, and held the flower to her nose. When she looked up she found Father gazing fondly down at her.

"It's lovely," she said, turning it gently over in her hand. "Thank you."

"As I said, just a little something," he said, scratching the back of his neck and looking almost as embarrassed as pleased. "I thought it might be fitting, though I'm sorry I only had a tie pin. I thought perhaps, if you wanted to, you could wear it on your dress. If you wanted to."

"Of course I want to," Anne told him, smiling. Father put his hands behind his back, a little grin on his face, and looked across the room at the wedding gown again.

"Jasmine always makes me think of your mother," he said quietly. Anne studied his profile as he went on, "Winter jasmine in particular, but of course there isn't any just now, so I thought this would do..."

Anne held up the pin, slowly turning it this way and that, studying the flower. "It does?" she asked when Father trailed off. When she spoke he turned back to her, his grin now a full smile.

"Your mother gave me some winter jasmine the day we met," he told her, adding with a small, affectionate chuckle, "A smile and a flower. To calm me down, I think."

Slowly Anne nodded. Now that he'd said it she seemed to remember that part of the story, but she'd only ever heard it from Mother. How Father, in his attempt to be suave, impressive, and nonchalant, had only succeeded in knocking over a bud vase. And in making Mother fall a bit more in love with him. So Mother had handed him the flower. Funny to know he remembered it, too.

"Ever since, jasmine makes me think of her," he was saying now, his voice reflective and somehow far away, as his gaze had been earlier. Anne noticed he was stroking his tie again. "Winter jasmine...it's such a tough little flower. It pops right up out of the snow, it's remarkable. A lovely, bright flower in the most unlikely environment."

"Rather like Mother," Anne said softly, catching Father's eye. He gave a slow nod, and touched her shoulder again.

"Just what I was thinking," he replied.

Anne's throat felt tight. Father was such a sweet man, he truly was. She was glad she was only moving into the village, and not farther away. She wasn't sure how she'd manage, not seeing Father every day, not sitting with him in the study in the evenings, not sitting at breakfast discussing butterflies and plants. She was going to be married. A grown woman. She brought the jasmine to her nose again, making a wish that Ned would come home safely, and that he'd love her the way Father loved Mother—in a kind way, sweetly, and for always.

"Be like your mother," Father said, his voice sounding a little strange. He put a gentle hand on the top of her head, just as he used to when she was little. "If...if anything ever happens. Be brave. Like her."

Anne was moved by his tone, even though she had no idea what he was talking about. So she nodded, and set the tie pin down gently next to her bouquet.

"I will," she told him, figuring that was a safe enough response. Father, smiling again, patted her hair once, gently.

"Well," he said, straightening and smoothing down his tie, "I'd best go see whether our guests have started to arrive. I'll—_oof!_"

Anne, caught up on impulse, stood quickly and threw her arms around Father's middle. While luckily this time she avoided hitting her head on his chin, she did knock over the little stool she'd been sitting on. She couldn't talk, she couldn't find the words. So she tried, just as she had the other night, to put a lot of feeling into this gesture.

Father seemed to understand, for he held her close, her nose pressing into his coat. For a long while they stood there, and when Father broke the hug it was to give her a quick dry peck on the forehead, just as he had the other day.

"I—don't know what to say," Anne said, her voice wavering even though she was smiling. Father held her at arm's length, his hands on her shoulders.

"You needn't say anything," he replied, giving a little shrug. He regarded her fondly before letting her go. "Is there anything you need, before I see you...er, later?"

Later, of course, being when he gave her away. Anne felt strangely guilty. He'd had to give her away twice in just about as many days. Or, perhaps, let her go. It was time, she was grown, she knew. She loved Ned and wanted to be his wife, to make a home of her own. But underneath that was a completely irrational desire to be the perpetual ten-year-old that Father, just as irrationally, wanted her to be.

Which made her think of something.

"Actually," she said, stepping aside as Father bent to right the stool, "there is something you could help me with."

"Yes?" Father asked, righting his slightly crooked boutinierre. Anne blushed a little in spite of herself, even as she grinned.

"Would...would you mind...well, helping me put my shoes on?" she asked.

0—0

"There!" Mother said, giving Anne's veil one final adjustment. "I think you're ready."

Anne stood before the freestanding full-length mirror in Mother's room, suddenly a bride.

"I-I look like you," she said wonderingly, unable to pull her gaze away from her reflection as she ran her hands down the bodice of her wedding gown, turning this way and that. Mother stood behind her, and met her gaze in the mirror. "Just like you in your wedding portrait."

"It's uncanny," Mother agreed, a gentle laugh in her voice. "Like looking back in time." For a long moment they both studied Anne's reflection in the mirror, Mother fond and wistful, Anne with the feeling that she was looking at someone else. But a very pretty and very adult someone else, all the same.

"But you have your father's hair," Mother added, gently righting a strand of said unruly hair, which had been escaping the confines of its bun. Anne turned from the mirror to face her. In her heeled boots she was a little taller than Mother, which was an odd sensation.

"Thank you, Mother," she said, fiddling with one of the many buttons down the front of her dress. "Truly. For everything."

"You're very welcome, my dear," she replied, reaching out and touching Anne's cheek. "But there's no need to thank me."

Anne disagreed, but smiled and nodded anyway. After giving her cheek one more gentle pat, Mother turned and, all bustling business again, went to her vanity table. Left on her own, Anne turned her attention back to the mirror, feeling vaguely princess-like in her old-fashioned gown. When Mother next spoke, Anne divided her attention between her mother's words and her own reflection.

"Wait until you see the parlor," Mother was saying, her back to Anne as she opened a little box on the vanity and took something out. "Mary did beautifully with the flowers. And Catherine with everything else."

"Everyone's been lovely," Anne murmured, her throat going tight for a moment. Mother had come back to join her, and Anne looked at herself and her mother, there in the mirror. Mother looked pretty in her tea gown, the soft lavender-colored one with the high lace collar. She was smiling, that gentle smile that was so much her own, that Anne couldn't quite believe she'd no longer see every day.

"We love you," Mother told her, taking her gently by the shoulders and looking at her closely, affectionately. Then she pulled her close for a moment, pressing her cheek against Anne's. It was the way Mother always hugged her. Anne tried to tell herself she was too old for lots of embraces anyway, and that a grown woman shouldn't mind so much that her Mother wouldn't be with her always any more.

"Now," Mother said, putting her arm around Anne's waist, "I have a gift for you. Just a little something. Hold out your hand, dear."

Anne did as she was told. Gently and carefully, Mother placed a brooch in the palm of her hand. But on closer inspection, she saw that it wasn't simply a brooch. It was the pin backing for a brooch, but instead of a gem or a cameo, there were two dried blue roses tied to it with ribbon.

"Your something blue," Mother explained. Anne nodded, thinking of the pin Father had presented her with earlier. Blue. That was when she noticed that these were not ordinary dried flowers. They were dead and dried in a different way.

"Were these hers?" Anne asked softly, meeting Mother's eye. "The corpse bride's?" They looked at each other for a long moment. Anne, for her part, didn't know quite what to feel.

"They were," Mother said. She reached out and cradled Anne's hand in her own, so that she was holding Anne's hand holding the flowers. "I've kept them. You remember the story, don't you?"

Anne nodded. "She threw you her flowers. After...well..." she trailed off, unsure of how much Mother wanted to remember. But she needn't have worried, for Mother still wore that same affectionate expression.

"Yes," she said. The longer Mother spoke, the more reflective and serious her tone became. "I was the next bride. She passed along all of her dreams to me. She knew I loved your father just as much as she did, and that he loved me. She-"

Mother's voice broke. Anne put her other arm around Mother's waist. As Mother swallowed and composed herself, they stood cradling the dead bride's flowers together. It was, eerily, almost as though they had a ghost in the room with them. A ghost who, really, was always in their house. Practically a part of their family. Anne leaned and touched her forehead to Mother's hair, briefly.

"You know all of that," Mother went on when she could speak again. Wrapping her arm around Anne a bit more tightly, she said, "What I wanted to tell you, particularly given your circumstances...is...well, love is the most important thing there is. Truly. It's the only thing that matters. To love someone else, to truly love them...it's stronger even than death. Love is all that outlasts death."

"Mother," Anne whispered, close to tears. She'd never heard her mother talk like this before. And, really, she didn't want to be reminded of her circumstances just now. But all the same, the way Mother spoke—it was moving. It all seemed beautiful, strangely. And true.

"Remember her, especially today," Mother murmured, turning and kissing Anne's hair. "Her only mistake, ever, was loving someone. And it's terrible that it was a mistake. She should not have died. She should have been able to have a life of her own, to grow old. To stand where I'm standing now, with her own daughter. She wanted all of those things, desperately. And they were stolen from her. Please, darling—don't take those things for granted. Remember how fleeting life is, and make it worthwhile."

Not only had Anne never heard Mother talk in such a way, she had never once in her life heard her mother say this many words at once. Clearly, her words were passionately meant. Anne was too moved to talk. Mother kissed her again, and, carefully, pinned the dead flowers to Anne's dress, just above her heart.

"There's Father's pin, too," she finally managed to say. When Mother gave her a questioning look, she clarified, "Father. He gave me a pin, too. It's on the vanity."

"Oh," said Mother, fetching the tie-pin with the jasmine tied to it. She held it gently between her fingers, smiling an affectionate little smile. "That was thoughtful of him."

With care, Mother pinned the jasmine very close to the dead roses, so that they almost looked as though they were somehow connected. Anne looked down at them, and then back to Mother. She thought over everything Mother had just said, and what Father had said...about loving someone so deeply one would do anything for them, would suffer to try to save them...

"You deserve to be remembered, too," Anne said, taking Mother's hand. Mother's look of surprise quickly changed to a smile. But before she could reply, someone cleared their throat behind them.

Lydia was standing in the doorway, wearing her ivory lace tea dress and a pair of elbow-length gloves. Mary had made her a corsage of little yellow buttercups, which she wore fastened to her dress in the same place Anne now wore her own.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said. Her voice sounded a little funny. "Pastor Galswells is here, Mother. He's ready to begin."

Anne's heart gave a little leap. Whether in fear or joy or both, she wasn't sure.

"Then I'd best go meet him," Mother said, her voice kind and businesslike again, all trace of the reverent melancholy of a moment ago gone. Anne realized that it had just been for her. All of that. She was more used to having such moments with Father. To have one with Mother, to get such a glimpse into Mother's normally very reserved inner self...

"I love you, Mother," Anne blurted just before Mother turned to leave. Nearly desperately she searched Mother's eyes, wanting to remember precisely what she looked like just at this moment.

"I love you, too," Mother replied, touching her cheek.

On the way out, she paused to look up at Lydia, a seemingly meaningful gaze passing between them. But all Mother said was, "Does Pastor Galswells seem to be in a good mood?"

Lydia shrugged. "He muttered something about making sure all the guests are alive, and then asked Ned if he was certain of his vows. Oh, and said we'd better have a bucket of water on hand, just in case."

"So a lovely mood, for him," said Mother. Lydia gave a half-hearted grin that immediately faltered. Mother patted her on the arm, and then left.

For a long moment, Lydia and Anne just looked at one another. Anne wondered, heart feeling cold, precisely how much she had heard. Lydia thought Mother was both entirely too good to be true and entirely mad over her compassionate memory of Emily, though Anne was positive Lydia had never heard Mother's reasons as they'd just been given.

Knowing her sister as she did, Anne hoped Lydia had heard all of what Mother had just said, and that it might somehow make a difference. And at the same time, Anne knew that she would never, ever ask about it.

Slowly Lydia approached, an odd sort of expression on her face. Without saying anything, she reached out a hand and, with gentle fingers, tilted the pins, as though to have a better look. For a brief second Anne was afraid Lydia intended to crush the fragile blue roses. But all she did was look.

"Roses are for eternal love," she said quietly, pulling back her hand. "Did you know?" Anne shook her head.

"And jasmine," she continued, "sends a message. _I attach myself to you_."

"Liddie," Anne began, unsure of what she wanted to say. To tell her she loved her, that she'd miss not seeing her every day? To beg her to please try to understand, a little, about the dead bride, and why Father and Mother still cared? To thank her for bringing Ned into her life? She wanted to say all of it, and more besides. Much more.

"Liddie," she tried again, croakier this time. It seemed to be all that would come out. Tears were beginning to prick at the corners of her eyes. Lydia's expression softened.

"Oh, for—come along, don't do that," she said affectionately, though discomfort was plain beneath the affection. "It's your wedding day, be happy."

The expression on her big sister's face, and the tone of her voice, proved too much. Anne had thought she'd used up all of her reserves yesterday. But no. Lydia standing there, the conversation about Emily, the knowledge of weddings past, the shadow of death that hung over Ned and the memory of death pinned to her breast, pinned there all mixed up with happiness and true love...Hot tears started running down her face.

"Oh dear," Lydia said, looking worried. Under different circumstances Anne might have laughed at how bizzarely and precisely, for that split second, Lydia looked like Father. But circumstances being what they were, Anne just continued to cry silently, trying to mop her face with the little half-gloves on her dress.

"No, no, don't get your dress all wet," Lydia said, looking frantically around until she found a handkerchief on Mother's vanity. "Here, use this."

Anne took the proferred handkerchief and touched it to her eyes. "Liddie," she tried again, but Lydia held up a hand.

"No, shut up, that's what set you off before," she said. Then, after seeming to consider for a moment, Lydia stepped forward and wrapped Anne in an awkward hug.

Anne was shocked, and it took her a moment to remember she was supposed to hug Lydia back. She couldn't remember the last time Lydia had hugged her. Whenever it had happened, she was sure Lydia had been shorter. Anne didn't even come up to her shoulder now. After pressing her tightly enough to be uncomfortable, Lydia let go. Looking up at her, Anne was surprised to see that her eyes looked a little wet. But her voice, when she spoke, was perfectly steady.

"I love you, Anne," she said simply. "I'll tell Father you're on your way downstairs."

"Thank you," Anne replied.

Once Lydia had left, Anne looked into the mirror again. Though her eyes were a little red-rimmed, she otherwise looked composed. Pretty. Elegant in her simplicity. Just like Mother. She touched the flowers pinned to her dress, and then smoothed down her hair. Closing her eyes, she conjured up Ned's face in her mind. The vision seemed to soothe and center her. When she opened her eyes, the bride she saw in the mirror was a little sad, but also full of hope and love. Anne touched the dead roses gently, carefully.

She was ready.


	29. The Wedding

Wedding Flowers—Chapter Twenty-Seven

Victor had thought he'd already seen the most gorgeous, heartbreakingly beautiful bride in the world when he'd watched Emily walk down the aisle toward him, bathed in that otherworldly glow. He had thought he'd already seen the prettiest, sweetest bride in the world when Victoria had walked into his parents' parlor on their wedding day. But the moment he saw Anne walk down the staircase as he stood waiting in the entry, he knew he'd been wrong. Anne oustripped them both by a mile.

"You look lovely," he told her, meeting her at the foot of the stairs, offering a hand to help her down the last few steps. "Absolutely lovely."

All she did was smile and hold her bouquet a little closer. Looking at her, Victor felt a rush of pride. And, deep down, he found it hard to believe that he'd been so dreading this day arriving not a week ago. He noted with pleasure that she was wearing the pin he'd put together for her, and she'd added something else. Blue flowers. Flowers he recognized immediately.

Anne saw where he was looking. "Mother gave me flowers, too," she explained, lifting a hand to gently touch the pin. "Some of...hers. Em-Emily's. So we put them all together."

"I like it," he told her. "It's perfect."

So saying, he offered her his arm, which she took. Together they stood before the closed parlor door.

Everyone else was already inside, seated. Before Victoria had closed the doors in preparation for Anne's entrance, Victor had surveyed the scene. A very rickety and sour-faced Pastor Galswells stood before the fireplace, behind a table not unlike the one that had been set up for Victor and Victoria's wedding rehearsal so many years before. Up front were Victoria and the other three girls. The Van Dorts and the Everglots, dressed in funereal black to a one, were sitting behind them. A few men from work, Mr. Auerbach and Mr. Van Schelven among them, had also shown up, and were bringing up the rear.

Very small, very intimate. And very fitting.

"Ready?" Victor asked, glancing down at Anne.

"Are you ready?" she asked in return, looking up at him, a small smile playing around her mouth.

"Not at all," he told her lightly, only half-kidding. She squeezed his elbow, her smile disappearing. Seeing how solemn she looked, he swallowed back his own nervousness and grinned.

"But don't worry about me," he said. "You're the one that matters. Now, you _are _ready? Shoes still on? I didn't miss any buttons?" Much to his pleasure, that got a smile.

"They're on, thank you," she replied, laughing a bit. "I'm ready."

Victor took a deep breath and one last look at Anne Van Dort.

"Then let's," he said. And he pushed open the parlor door.

0—0

"With this hand," Ned began, walking Anne three steps to the table, "I will lift your sorrows."

Lydia was quiet, thoughtful, as she watched Father take a seat next to Mother after putting Anne's hand into Ned's. Mother's voice kept breaking into her thoughts, all of those things she'd said about Emily. Those dead roses.

Lydia couldn't think about it clearly just now. It would take some time for her to work out. Her ideas and opinions and messy feelings about the corpse bride, and her father, weren't going to change overnight. They were too deeply ingrained, she'd spent far too long nursing and cultivating them. And yet...now it was complicated, by something new trying to break through. But she couldn't think about it just now. Lydia decided she'd think about it tomorrow.

_Fiddle dee dee, _ she thought with an inward sigh.

"Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine."

"I thought Count Van Lynden was coming," she heard Grandfather murmur from behind her. "It'd be nice to have at least one decent person to talk to..."

"His gout's probably acting up," Catherine said under her breath. Then she gave a visible shudder.

Lydia gave her a sympathetic pat on the knee. Grandmamma had been in a dither when she arrived today, pulling Catherine aside and excitedly telling her that Count Van Lynden, the man who'd agreed to become engaged to Catherine, would be there—all thanks to Grandmamma pulling some strings and using very important connections, naturally. Lydia had heard all about the Count, whom she'd never met, the other night—an old associate of Grandfather's, bald with an enormous white beard, and pushing seventy. The only nice thing Catherine had found to say about him was that he'd taught her to play whist while she was at his estate the previous month.

"Ugh," Catherine whispered, as though for emphasis, shuddering again.

"Well, at least he didn't show up, you can be thankful for that," Lydia whispered.

"With this candle," Ned continued, "I will light your way in darkness."

Lydia tried to focus on the ceremony, but was distracted by Grandmother and Grandmamma whispering behind her.

"Never mind the Count. Where _is _Lord Peregrine?" Grandmother was asking. "He was asking after Mary just a few days ago..."

Catherine elbowed Lydia, and they both stole little sideways glances at Mary. Lord Peregrine was, apparently, a very distant relation of Grandmother's. They'd all met him at one of Grandmother's dour Christmas parties—he was dapper, trim of beard, and about fifty years old. When Catherine had told Mary about both the list and her potential suitor, Mary had had to excuse herself to go be sick.

"Which one is Mary, again?" Grandfather asked in a whisper.

"Not now, Finis!" Grandmother hissed.

_They'll really stop at nothing to get us married off the way they want, _Lydia thought, touching her gloved wrist and recalling her encounter with Sir Ralph. At least he, while an oily, handsy prat, was of a suitable age and had a few things in common with her. Poor Mary and Catherine, though...and to arrange for their suitors to crash Anne's wedding! It was only with great difficulty that Lydia refrained from turning around and shoving her corsage up Grandmother's nose.

"You're the one who told him not to come," Grandmamma replied, surprise plain in her voice.

"Excuse me?" Grandmother asked.

"I telephoned him this morning—on his private line, you know," Grandmamma said, and Lydia somehow knew without looking that she was patting at her hair. "And he told me you'd telephoned him already, and said the situation had changed. Although—and really, _far_ be it from me to criticize-you probably needn't have told him he was old and boring. Or that he should chase after someone his own age."

"I did no such thing!" Grandmother hissed, aghast.

"Of _course _you didn't," whispered Grandmamma, ever the sycophant. "He'd probably been at the sherry again, you know how he is...I wouldn't expect him at any of your dinners any time soon, though."

Lydia glanced down and caught Catherine's eye. As one, they turned to Mary, who was making a big show of innocently watching the ceremony.

_"What?"_ Mary mouthed when she saw them staring at her. Then, with great dignity, she turned to the front again. The tiniest little smirk played around her mouth.

"With this ring, I ask you to be mine."

0—0

"Now you, Miss Van Dort," quavered Pastor Galswells.

Beaming, Anne began, her voice confident and clear. "With this hand, I will lift your sorrows."

_I will not cry, _Victoria said to herself. She didn't want to make a spectacle of herself. All the same, she had to bite the inside of her cheek as a distraction. That was Anne, her little girl, in a wedding gown, standing with the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. A brand new, exciting life.

Oddly, the idea of new life coupled with the sight of Anne in a white dress made Victoria think of Anne as an infant, in her long white baby gown. Impossibly little, wriggling about in her arms. Hadn't that only been three months ago?

Proud, happy, and still biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay, Victoria reached and surreptitiously slipped her hand into Victor's. He responded by squeezing her fingers, even though he didn't take his eyes from Ned and Anne.

"Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine."

Ned looked so handsome in his uniform. And, standing there with Anne, he looked impossibly happy, and so in love. Victoria was again struck by how young he looked, how boyish. She watched as he tilted his head a little to the side, his adoring gaze never leaving Anne's face as she recited her vows.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, it hit her. Why he looked familiar.

"With this candle, I will light your way in darkness."

Her wedding to Barkis. A rainy, dark, sad day that she'd tried very hard to forget._ That's _where she remembered him from. Ogdred Weary been very small then, crouched behind a pew, watching her wedding from the very back. Victoria had only noticed him on her way out, as Barkis had more or less marched her out of the church. He'd looked so troubled, and, she now recalled, he'd gone so far as to reach out a tentative hand toward her as she'd walked by. Victoria had wondered, vaguely, why he was there, but it had been rather low on her list of concerns that day.

Ned's words at dinner the other night came back to her:_ "That was a very sad thing...upsetting." _So that was why he'd spoken as though he knew. Because he did.

"Oh," she murmured, putting a hand to her mouth. She wasn't aware she'd spoken aloud until she saw Victor looking at her sideways, his expression questioning. Victoria just squeezed his hand again, and he turned his attention back to the ceremony.

A kind, solemn little boy had turned into a kind man. One who would treat her daughter well, and make her happy.

_Come home. Please, come home to her,_ Victoria thought as she regarded Ned, standing there smiling widely as Anne took his hand, preparing to complete the ceremony.

For one brief second, as though he'd heard her, Ned and Victoria made eye contact. Much like they had twenty-six years ago.

And then the moment was over.

"With this ring," Anne said, sliding the band onto Ned's finger, "I ask you to be mine."

0—0

"I now pronounce you man and wife," quavered Pastor Galswells.

Just like that, Anne became Mrs. Weary, and Victor gained a son-in-law. Not a single line dropped, not a single catastrophe, no fires or swordfights or walking corpses or poisonings.

Somehow Victor found it slightly anticlimactic. As though there should somehow be more. And then he shook his head, deciding that this was just how it should be. Another happily ever after in the making, after a quiet, uneventful ceremony.

And then Anne fainted.

There was a collective gasp as she collapsed into Ned, like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly cut. Shock plain on his face, Ned held her in his arms, patting at her cheeks. Victor rushed forward, pulling over a chair and helping Ned ease Anne into it. Victoria was kneeling by Anne's side, stroking her limp hand, as everyone else started talking at once.

"William, take my smelling salts up there, quick!" Nell said. "Oh, and my fan—give her some air!"

"Please, please, just give her a little room, will you?" Ned pleaded, waving them away.

"Where's that brandy I gave you, Van Dort?" Van Schelven called from the back of the room.

"There's wine right on the table, we can use that!" Mary said, grabbing the goblet.

"Most likely it hit her all at once, just what she's marrying," Maudeline remarked, her nose in the air.

"Mother, please!" Victoria said.

There was an audible snap as Pastor Galswells, rolling his eyes heavenward, closed his prayer book.

"I knew this was a bad idea, I told the blonde one," he grumbled to himself, shuffling along with his staff toward Victor's armchair and taking a seat. "Mad as hatters...not meant to get married..."

Eventually Anne's eyes fluttered open. When she saw everyone crowded around her, smelling salts extended here and the goblet of wine from the ceremony there, her cheeks went pink.

"I'm sorry!" she said, hand to her face as she sat up, Ned helping her. "I don't...I was lightheaded all of a sudden..."

"I wonder why," said Lydia, looking pointedly at Anne's heavily corseted waist. Together Lydia and Ned helped Anne to her feet.

"Look!" she added as Catherine stepped up to help, "I can get my hands all the way round your waist, Anne, for heaven's sake!"

"Let's get you out of this thing," said Catherine, patting Anne's middle. Turning to Lydia and Mary, she said, "Come on, give us a hand, will you?"

The four of them made their way upstairs, leaving the freshly-minted husband and the remaining guests to stare at one another. The men from the cannery stood in a quiet, awkward cluster by the piano. Nell, clearly overcome by the drama, had taken a whiff of the smelling salts herself, as William fanned her absently. Finis and Maudeline just sat, icily staring at Victoria, Victor, and Ned at the front of the room.

After a moment Victor noticed that everyone was staring at him in particular, clearly expecting him to do or say something. Father of the bride, and all. So Victor cleared his throat quietly.

"Er..." said Victor, straightening his boutinniere and glancing around the room. "There's...there's cake, in the dining room. Ah...shall we?"

"Well, there's one down," murmured Victoria as the wedding guests made their way across the entry. "It was a very nice ceremony. Anne and Ned looked so happy."

"Yes," Victor agreed with a smile, taking her hand.

"And to think, we get to do this three more times!" she said, standing on tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Mm-hm," Victor replied non-committally. Victoria smiled, patted his lapel affectionately, and then made her way toward the dining room.

For a moment Victor stood in his disordered parlor, taking in the flowers that were just beginning to wilt, and the bit of wine that had been spilled on the Persian rug. He noticed that the candles on the table were still lit. He glanced about, unsure of what the etiquette was for putting out the wedding candles.

And then he decided that a possible fire hazard trumped symbolism.

Leaning over, he solemnly blew out each candle. As he did so, he wished his daughter and her new husband a long and happy life together.

_And as for the other three, _he thought, grinning a little as he stood back up again, _well...there's always that convent in the Alps._

Just in case.

_**The End.**_

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**Author's Note:**

**I don't own "Corpse Bride" or its characters. Probably should've mentioned that sooner.**

Dear Readers,

Holy cow, you guys. This has been a journey! "Wedding Flowers," much to my surprise, took almost a year to write, changing and evolving the entire time—right up to this ending! Thanks for sticking around through it all, if you're reading this. If you just skipped to the end, not wanting to bother with upward of 70,000 words, that's cool too. I don't blame you!

Many thanks to everybody, and I mean everybody, who took the time to review this story. Your feedback was always great to hear. However, I want to acknowledge a few folks in particular: Flaming Trails, for fruitful and fun discussions, as well as insightful reviews. To CoriOreo, for stimulating debates and extraordinarily helpful critiques. To Rose in Daydreams and Chris P.C. for all the very sweet thoughts and support.

And, finally, to no name please, an utterly amazing Constant Reader of the highest order. If I had your address, I would send you a card.

Thanks, always, to the members of the Corpse Bride fandom, who love the characters, the story, and the universe. It was nice to find you all still here, and to get such a sweet welcome back. Thanks for remembering me!

Best,

PlayerPiano

P.S.

My own wedding is on Friday. :D Thought it fitting to share!


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